True Believers
by cheride
Summary: It should’ve been a fun-filled weekend in Vegas, but he had to settle for bank robbery, kidnapping, and jail time. Mark’s vacations never go as planned.
1. Part 1

_Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle & McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators._

**Author's Note:** This was first published in the second S.T.A.R. for Brian CD-'zine, and I'd like to thank my co-authors on that project, Owl and L.M., for being the best partners a girl could hope for. And, I'd like to thank all of you for the support you've shown our cause over the past couple of years; it is sincerely appreciated.

* * *

**True Believers**

by

Cheride

**Chapter 1**

Milton Hardcastle rose quickly from the desk and moved gratefully to the door. He never would've expected to get so bored so quickly, and he was glad to be interrupted from his make believe work.

"Hey, Fr—"

"Is Mark here?" Lieutenant Harper interrupted. The detective strode quickly through the open doorway toward the den, and Hardcastle immediately thought he might've preferred to stay bored. But he closed the door calmly and followed his friend.

"No," the judge answered, "he's away for the weekend. What's up?"

"Away where?" Harper replied suspiciously.

A bit to his surprise, Hardcastle found that he didn't really care for the officer's attitude. "Don't take that tone with me. I'm responsible for him. If you have something to say to him, you can say it to me."

Harper planted himself in the middle of the den and turned to glare at the older man. "_You_ don't take that tone with _me_. This is an official police investigation, and I am asking you officially, where is Mark McCormick?"

Attitude or no, Hardcastle didn't intend to refuse information to a direct police inquiry, and certainly not to one of his oldest friends. But something was clearly very wrong, and if Frank had come officially, then he himself was the last thing standing between McCormick and . . . _and what_? Rather than an answer, he found himself asking a very simple question.

"Frank, can't you just tell me what's going on?"

Harper seemed to recognize the genuine concern and dialed back the attitude. "Milt, you know the drill. You don't get any information until I get some basic facts established. But you can't help him until you know what's going on." He paused, then added, "And neither can I. I honestly don't know how this one's going to turn out, but we still need to work together."

Hardcastle shook his head once, almost imperceptibly. This was sounding worse by the minute, but Harper had a point. Feeling that this might be a lengthy conversation, he moved to one of the leather armchairs and pointed the detective toward the other.

"He's in Las Vegas," he finally answered as he leaned into the cushion.

Harper's eyebrow shot up. "You let him go to Vegas alone? Seems a little risky, doesn't it? I mean, has it even been six months?"

Hardcastle shrugged. "Well, we had that Emmett Parnell case last week, and he did a good job. I put him in a pretty tight spot, too, but he did it.

"And, it's almost the anniversary of his parole. He wanted to celebrate. I figured he'd earned a little break. And, anyway, he's not alone. He went with a friend."

"Does the friend have a name?"

"Ah," Hardcastle grimaced slightly, "Teddy Hollins."

Harper slapped his palm to his forehead. "Milt! You sent two parolees to Las Vegas on their own? When's the last time you heard from them?"

"McCormick left here Thursday afternoon; he'll be back tomorrow night."

"You didn't ask him to check in at least once?"

"He's a grown man."

Harper just stared.

"I guess he forgot," Hardcastle admitted after a moment.

"And you weren't worried?"

"No," the judge answered truthfully. "Annoyed maybe, but not worried. What's he done to make me worry so far? And besides, aren't you the guy who's always telling me to be nice to the kid? Cut him a little slack, give him some rope?"

"I didn't mean enough rope to hang himself," Harper snapped. He took a breath. "All right. So you haven't seen or heard from him in almost forty-eight hours, and you're not expecting him for at least another twenty-four. Jeez. We need to reel this kid in. Where's he staying?"

Hardcastle sat silently and Harper shook his head. "I cannot believe that you let him go gallivanting off like that. No plan, no contact. What were you thinking?"

"That he's not a prisoner here," Hardcastle shot back. But he was rising from his chair. "I told Hollins to check in with his PO; I'll find out where they're at, and we'll get to the bottom of whatever in the hell you're not saying." He rounded his desk, flipped quickly through the Rolodex, and dialed a number forcefully. The line was answered on the second ring, and he spoke genially into the receiver.

"Leslie? Hi, Milt Hardcastle. Listen, sorry to bother you at home on the weekend, but I was wondering if you had the name of the hotel where Hollins and McCormick are staying? I seem to—what? . . . When was that? . . . Are you sure? . . . He _did_? . . . Okay, thanks for your help. Sorry again to have bothered you." He hung up the phone with far less certainty than he had raised it.

Harper had crossed to the desk and was waiting for the news. He raised an inquiring eyebrow, but Hardcastle was flipping through the Rolodex again. The judge found the number he wanted, but paused with his hand on the receiver and looked back at Frank.

"Hollins didn't go to Vegas," he said slowly, wishing that didn't seem so immediately damning, but just as immediately knowing that—whatever Harper was investigating—McCormick would be better off with an alibi.

"Why not?"

Hardcastle shrugged. "Dunno. Called his PO Thursday to let her know he'd changed his plans, then showed up for his regular weekly meeting yesterday morning." He picked up the phone with another shrug, though he doubted it was coming across nearly as nonchalant as he might've liked. "We'll see what Hollins has to say."

He dialed the number, then drummed his fingers on the desktop as he waited for the line to be connected. He forced himself not to ask Harper again what was going on; the man was clearly determined to stick to policy.

_What does he think I'd do anyway, lie for him?_ The idea would've been ridiculous, except for the way he seemed instinctively determined to stand in the path of whatever was coming after McCormick, before he had even the slightest idea what it might be.

Hardcastle pinched at the bridge of his nose and was just about to slam down the phone in disgust—had Hollins never heard of an answering machine?—when the ring was suddenly interrupted and a slightly breathless voice answered from the other end.

"Yeah?"

"Teddy?"

"Yeah," Hollins breathed into the receiver, "who's this?"

"Milt Hardcastle."

"Oh . . . hiya, Judge. Sorry," Teddy paused to take a breath, "I was just coming in when I heard the phone. What's up?"

Hardcastle found himself hesitant, but he asked the first question. "Is McCormick with you?"

"No, why?"

Hardcastle thought that sounded sincere. "Why aren't you in Vegas?"

The tone turned puzzled, but no less genuine. "What do you mean? Skid called Thursday afternoon and said something had come up. Told me you needed him to hang around, so the trip was off." Teddy paused, and Hardcastle could almost hear the wheels spinning.

"But you know, I think there was this girl he met the other day. Maybe he just didn't want to tell me he'd decided to take her instead of me. Yeah, I'm sure that's all that it was."

Hardcastle was surprised by how much he wanted to believe the transparent lie, or at least wished the cops would believe it. But he stood his ground. "Don't lie to me, Hollins," he instructed firmly, "this is too important. What—_exactly_—did he say had come up?"

"Uh, I dunno, nothin' really. I mean, just stuff."

"_Teddy_ . . ." Hardcastle thought the single word would probably carry enough threat to get him the information he was after.

"Jeez, Hardcastle, seriously, it was nothin'." Teddy was sounding more exasperated than conspiratorial. "Skid was just kinda pissed, is all. I mean, he was really looking forward to this trip, and he was mad you told him he couldn't go. Said it was all just a bunch of stupid 'Tonto stuff'. Talked about all the normal raking and pruning and all, and said he had to wait around half the day for some exterminator who was coming to take care of some spider problem in the gatehouse, and then he told me about the stakeout at the museum. What's going on, anyway?"

"Stakeout at the museum?" Hardcastle countered.

"Yeah, said you were going to stop some kind of kidnapping or something. Did it work?"

"What? Oh, yeah, it was fine," Hardcastle answered absently. But in the back of his mind, he was certain that McCormick had told him once that the key to a successful con was the details. He forced his attention back to Hollins. "That was Thursday?"

"Yeah, just a couple of hours before he was supposed to pick me up. Judge, what's wrong?"

Hardcastle sighed. "McCormick seems to be missing." He left out the official police aspect of the whole thing; he didn't know enough about that to talk about it yet. "Of course," he went on, "he might still be in Vegas, I don't know. But I do need to find him." He paused, then asked evenly, "Is there anywhere he would go?"

The response was quiet, but assured. "He wouldn't run, Judge."

"Is there anywhere he would go?" Hardcastle repeated.

Hollins seemed to give it some thought. "Nowhere I know of right off, but I'll think about it."

"It's important, Teddy," Hardcastle reminded him.

"I'll think about it, Judge. I'll let you know."

Hardcastle listened to the dial tone for a few seconds, then replaced the receiver and looked back at Harper. "He wouldn't run."

"Lay it out for me," Harper instructed.

The judge sighed as he dropped into the chair behind his desk. "Okay. McCormick left here Thursday about two. He was supposed to pick up Hollins at four, but he had a couple of stops to make first." He didn't wait to be asked. "The bank and the market. The kid never goes anywhere without a sack full of junk food, ya know. At least the bank should be easy enough to check. Either he made it there or he didn't.

"Anyway, Hollins says McCormick called him to cancel a couple of hours before he was supposed to pick him up." He only hesitated a second. "The kid apparently gave him some cockamamie story about me giving him a bunch of chores and some case we needed to work on. Said I wouldn't let him go. Blamed it on me."

"So, it sounds like he canceled almost as soon as he left here then, like he'd had it planned."

Hardcastle couldn't find fault with the logic, though he didn't agree with the conclusion. He leaned forward and looked at Harper intently. "He wouldn't run." Maybe if he said it often enough, he'd make someone believe him.

"Then where is he?" Harper questioned.

But the judge shook his head. "I don't know, Frank. He's in some kinda trouble, though, or he'd be out in Vegas with Teddy, drinking over-priced drinks and staring at naked women, that I _do_ know.

"But now you know what I know—which isn't a whole hell of a lot—and you know I'm committed to my story. So why don't you tell me what brought you out here today? What is it you think he's done?"

00000

Harper sighed heavily and wished for just an instant that he was anywhere but here. He hadn't wanted this assignment, but he also hadn't wanted anyone else to bring this news to Hardcastle. He ran a hand over his head and steeled himself to the task.

"There was a bank heist last night," he began. He held up a hand to stop the argument before Hardcastle could tell him how much that didn't sound like McCormick. There'd be plenty of time for that once the whole story was told.

"From the looks of things," Harper went on, "the job was going pretty smoothly at first. Security system wasn't tripped and the work on the vault was pretty neat." He thought the judge didn't look too surprised at that, but he didn't comment. "Anyway, looks like the problem started on the way out. Night watchman making his rounds seems to have surprised Mc—ah, the perpetrator. The guy managed to get his gun taken from him and then get bashed upside the head and all 'round beat up pretty badly. He laid there for over an hour before anyone got worried about him missing radio checks; barely breathing by the time they got to him. He's listed in critical condition now."

"No way."

The calmly spoken words weren't quite the response Harper had been expecting, but their unyielding conviction was unnerving. "Milt—"

"No way," Hardcastle repeated, this time more stringently. "Not McCormick. You want to come in here and tell me he ripped off a bank? I won't like it, and I probably won't believe it, but it's not like the kid never stole anything before. And security systems and vaults? Well, I'm pretty sure McCormick knows his way around anything that locks, so I'd still be with you, even if I didn't want to be. But when you tell me that he knocked some guy in the head and then left him laying half-dead in an empty building just waiting on someone to stumble across him, then you've lost me completely. Uh-uh. It didn't happen that way. _Not_ McCormick, and I don't care what you've got that says otherwise."

Harper didn't waste time trying to argue with the emotions of the older man's statements; he just laid out the facts. "We've got the Coyote on tape outside the bank, and we've got his prints inside. And on the guard's gun."

Hardcastle visibly blanched. He closed his eyes and slouched down heavily in his chair. For a moment, Harper thought he might have to keep the other man from toppling to the floor. He had taken the first step toward rounding the desk when Hardcastle spoke again.

"Then we'll just have to figure out why."

The detective paused mid-stride. "Why what?" he asked, momentarily lost in the conversation.

"Why his car was there and why his prints are on that gun," Hardcastle replied, as if it made all the sense in the world.

Harper completed the trip around the desk and hitched his hip up onto the corner, situating himself to face his friend directly. "Milt," he said evenly, "I think we both know why."

"No," the judge answered just as evenly, finally opening his eyes, "you _think_ you know why because you're thinking like a cop. But you're making a rookie mistake, Frank. You're being blinded by the facts and jumping to the wrong conclusion."

Harper wasn't offended by the accusation. "But you're not thinking like a cop at all, Milt; you're ignoring the facts completely."

Hardcastle shrugged. "I'm not a cop anymore. But I'm not ignoring the facts, Frank; I'm just focusing on the most important one."

Trying not to sound impatient, Harper kept his recitation to two key items. "More important than the fact that he's missing and we can place him at the scene of the crime?"

"Absolutely." The jurist locked eyes with Harper. "I _know_ Mark McCormick. And I'm telling you, Frank; you don't have this thing figured out yet."

And in that moment, Hardcastle seemed so confident, Harper wished that it could be true.

00000

Hardcastle sat in the gathering darkness, staring at the door of the gatehouse, willing its occupant to appear. Not that he expected to have any greater success now than he'd had the past several hours, but he didn't really have anything else to try.

The day had been surreal as he'd gone about the business of answering questions and directing a small but fairly steady stream of officers around the estate as they conducted their investigation. Harper had run a lot of interference, mostly shielding him from the knowing looks and sympathetic—if questioning—whispers. He had spoken with no one who doubted that McCormick was the guilty party, though one or two had seemed genuinely surprised. He had found himself grateful for even that small hint of loyalty.

He thought he'd handled it all pretty well, though, and let the officials do their job, even if their job was currently to gather the evidence necessary to prove the guilt of a young man he was increasingly coming to think of as a friend. He hadn't been surprised to hear Harper casually mention the name of the bank—'the First National branch over on Lincoln'—and the detective hadn't seemed surprised to learn that it was McCormick's bank. Unfortunately, what he was starting to see as a potentially flawless frame, the authorities were seeing as a rock-solid case of guilt, but he'd still made it through the day without blatantly defending the kid to anyone but Harper. He wasn't too concerned what any of the others thought, anyway, as long as they did their jobs by the book, without any kind of rush to judgment. And, no matter how damning the evidence seemed, he trusted Harper enough to know that the man would make sure that didn't happen.

Of course, it had been Harper who'd sidled up to him after the search of the gatehouse had come up empty.

"You should take a look yourself, Milt," the detective had said softly, reasonably. "You might see something that we wouldn't even recognize as important."

Hardcastle had waved off the idea angrily at the time, but hours later, after everyone had gone and there still was no sign of the missing young man, he could admit that the idea made a lot of sense. So he'd pushed down the nagging feeling of guilt and strolled over to the gatehouse to make his own search of the premises. But it had been with undisguised vindication that he'd called Harper to report that he hadn't found anything more than the officers, 'because there isn't anything to find'.

"Or maybe he's just being careful," the detective had countered, though Hardcastle thought maybe he was just playing devil's advocate. Maybe.

The judge sighed heavily and settled back into the sofa. Alone here in the dark, though, he could admit to himself that things looked really bad. But even with that admission, an honest assessment of his feelings told him there was still something missing, and if the cops weren't interested in figuring it out, that was only going to leave him.

In the meantime, on the outside chance that it could help, he stared at the gatehouse door and willed its occupant to appear.

**Chapter 2**

"Milt, you have got to listen to me here. This is one case you cannot be involved in. I promise, I will keep you up to speed with everything I know, and I'll make sure Mark gets a fair shake in the investigation, but you have got to let us handle it." The stern admonition was tinged with concern.

Hardcastle glared across the detective's desk. "So jurisdiction is more important than justice?" he demanded. "Territory more important than the truth?"

Harper rubbed at his forehead. "Of course not," he answered wearily. "But—"

"But nothin'," Hardcastle interrupted. He shoved a small stack of folders toward the officer. "I'm tellin' ya, you need to look at some of these guys. Any one of 'em coulda engineered a little revenge by setting McCormick up to take a fall."

"Milt . . ." The detective trailed off, shaking his head.

But Hardcastle heard the unspoken argument. "I get it, Frank, I really do. It looks bad. But if you're really gonna look out for the kid and make sure he 'gets a fair shake', as you put it, then you have to at least consider the possibility that he's innocent. I know what everyone's saying; I've been down this path before and McCormick just took a little longer to show his true colors." He shrugged. "I don't think so, but even if that's the way it turns out, I owe the kid a decent investigation. Even if he finally decided to cut and run, he did a lot of good while he was here, helped me out a lot. Hell, he saved my life, Frank. It's my turn to help him. This has to be done right. When you start digging around, I think you're gonna find more than a few missing pieces."

"And what if we don't?" Harper asked directly.

Hardcastle didn't back down from the idea. "At least it won't be because we didn't look," he answered, and pushed the files closer to the detective.

00000

Harper sighed as he pulled the folders to his side of the desk, then placed them in an ever growing stack of work. "I'll look them over," he promised. He supposed he should be grateful the man had only brought along four or five; he knew from personal experience the judge had been involved in far more cases than that in the past six months. Still, he didn't really hold out much hope for finding what Hardcastle was after, and he didn't really have much time for busy work. He took a breath and hoped for the best.

"You should go home now, Milt."

Hardcastle didn't show any sign of rising. "Isn't there anything new yet?"

"You mean in the maybe six hours since I talked to you last? When anyone with any sense was sleeping?"

"_You're_ working," the judge pointed out with absolute reason, "I'm working. There could be news."

Harper hesitated another moment. As near as he could determine, the file folder in front of him held the final nail in Mark McCormick's coffin, and he figured even Milton Hardcastle would see it that way, but he had hoped to delay that news just a little bit longer. But he had never been all that good at keeping things from his friend, and Hardcastle seemed to recognize the truth behind the silence.

"What've you got?"

The detective hated the weary fear that crept into the older man's voice; the way that he seemed to already know that his faith was about to be dashed one more time. Harper shook his head slightly and passed his own file folder across the desk.

"Take a look at these photos."

He watched Hardcastle flip quickly through the small stack of pictures showing McCormick, dressed uncharacteristically in a suit and tie, along with another man dressed similarly and a young woman in a smart pant suit. McCormick was carrying a clipboard, and in several of the photos, could be seen taking notes. But Harper knew it wasn't the clothing or the activity that caused Hardcastle's grip to tighten almost imperceptibly on the folder he held, nor did it cause the slight reddening of his face or the horror that dawned in his eyes. No, it was the obvious location of the photographs that caused all of that.

"This is in First National?" Hardcastle asked quietly, though the detective was fairly certain there really was no doubt in his mind. McCormick could be clearly seen in several secure areas of a bank, looking closely at his surroundings, jotting things on his clipboard.

Harper's response was just as quiet. "I'm sorry, Milt."

Hardcastle nodded slowly. "Who're the others?"

Following the judge's lead, Harper stuck to the case. "Woman's name is Megan Wesley; she's with bank security. Seems this little tour is part of a fairly standard security check the Fed requires periodically, and it's been scheduled for weeks. She says the other guy's name is Ben Jackson, but we've got nothing that matches that name. We're running the picture."

Hardcastle looked at the photo again. "He's wearing gloves."

"Yeah. In every shot; no prints from him."

"No one thought anything about that?"

Harper shrugged. "We asked the banker about it; she said she thought it was strange, but just figured he had something wrong with his hands, and it would be impolite to ask."

"And she's supposed to be in security." Hardcastle shook his head. "Unbelievable. What name did McCormick use?"

"Ah, his own, mostly."

"Mostly?"

"Gave them a first name of Milton," the detective explained, almost apologetically.

"So when did this all take place?" the judge asked, closing the folder and passing it back to Harper.

"Thursday afternoon, just after business hours. And here's the thing: the Fed confirms that there really was a security review scheduled, but that the bank called earlier in the morning and asked to reschedule; said their security officer had come down with a bad case of the flu or something. Fed said their reviews had always been more than satisfactory, so they didn't have any reason to think there was a problem, and agreed to reschedule.

"And there's one more thing," Harper continued. "There was one other guy, with McCormick, using the name Black, but he never showed up on a security camera, not once. We've got Ms. Wesley going through the books, looking for a match."

"Well, that's a little odd, too," Hardcastle said slowly.

The detective could tell he was putting the pieces together, desperately wanting them to assemble into any picture other than what they actually showed.

"So let me get this straight," Hardcastle said. "The working theory is that McCormick left home on a regular Thursday afternoon, then, just a few hours later, he walked into his own bank, used essentially his own name, and executed a well-laid plan that he must've been working on right under my own nose. And nobody finds it even a little bit unusual that of the three people who went into the bank, he's the only one who can be identified? Nobody thinks it would've made more sense for him to pick a different bank, one where he wouldn't run the risk of being identified as a fraud the minute he walked in the door? And has anyone come up with any logical explanation for how McCormick would've known about the Fed's security sweep, anyway? There's a lot of questions to be answered here, Frank, and I wish someone besides me would start trying to figure it out."

"Milt—"

"Don't 'Milt' me," Hardcastle interrupted angrily. "I'm a big boy. If McCormick's dirty, he'll go down, and I'll deal with it. But from where I'm sitting, this is all coming together in far too neat a package, and it's starting to stink to high heaven. So would you please humor me, and just consider the possibility that someone's setting him up?"

"I'm considering _every_ possibility," Harper shot back hotly, "but I don't know what kind of explanation you think I'm going to find for him posing as a security expert in a bank that got ripped off a day later. Do you think you have a logical reason for _that_?"

As much as he didn't want to hurt his friend, the detective did hope his bluntness would put an end to Hardcastle's arguments. He wasn't expecting the stubborn response he got in return.

"Not yet."

00000

Mark looked over as he heard the door unlock. Lying on the bed, feet bound together then tied again to the metal bed frame, hands pulled above his head, handcuffed to the bed, he hoped the glare he gave the man standing in the doorway came across as defiant. But with his position, combined with a few new bruises and a swollen eye, he figured it was probably closer to sullen.

"You really shouldn't've tried to escape from Randall," the man said as he took a single step into the small room. "You'd been cooperating so well up until then."

"Only because you'd been lying to me," McCormick said bitterly.

The man shrugged. "It would've been better if we'd actually had him, holding a gun to his head?"

Mark grimaced and didn't answer. Of course that's not what he'd meant, but he wasn't going to engage in debate with this man. This ordeal needed to be over, one way or the other. What he finally said was simple. "So what's next?"

"Randall and I are leaving now; you have a decision to make."

"Meaning what?"

The man crossed the room and placed a small duffel bag within reach of McCormick's bound hands. "This is your share of the money. Not exactly an _even_ share, you understand, but enough to get you started somewhere else."

"I didn't do it for the money."

"No. But that's where the decision comes in. Take the money and make your escape, or go back to prison; it's up to you."

"You oughta just kill me," McCormick muttered, and was only slightly surprised to find that he honestly considered that the lesser of the evils.

"That would be too easy on him," the other man said with a shake of his head. "You're important to him, you know. Surprising, but apparently true. Personally, I hope you take off, leave him to wonder, but that's up to you." The voice hardened. "Just remember what I said about consequences for other actions."

McCormick swallowed hard. "I'm not likely to forget."

"Good. As long as we understand each other. When you've made your decision, you'll find everything you need in the bag."

And then the man was gone, leaving McCormick to contemplate a choice he had never anticipated.

00000

He had lain on the bed, tugging on the handcuffs futilely for almost fifteen minutes, more from sheer frustration than out of any true hope that anything would give way. Then he tried to calculate the odds that Hardcastle would find him, wherever he was. He finally decided that was probably close to a sure thing, but how long it might take was the real question. With no food and no water, the judge just might walk into a fairly gruesome scene. He'd like to avoid that.

Finally he stopped to think through his situation as rationally as possible. If he was really supposed to disappear and leave Hardcastle wondering about the motivations of his latest rehab project, then he must be expected to escape somehow. That only made sense.

"_None_ of this makes sense," he contradicted himself aloud.

But still, what had his captor said? That everything he'd need was in the bag? Yeah, that was it. He twisted as far as he was able in order to look behind him. The duffel bag sat, open, on a small table just within his reach.

"Real observant, Skid," he muttered, as he reached inside the bag. He'd hoped to find a key on top of the stack of bills, but he supposed that might not've been expected to slow him down very much. Instead he found a couple of picks, but he certainly wouldn't complain. One was as good as the other, as far as he was concerned.

He made quick work of the handcuffs, then sat upright to work at the ropes around his feet. That took longer—he thought a knife in the bag would've been a nice touch—but he was finally free. Then he swung his legs off the bed and dragged the duffel bag onto his lap. Taking a closer look inside, he thought there was ten or maybe even fifteen thousand dollars inside, along with a couple of driver's licenses, complete with aliases to accompany his photo. Everything he'd need, indeed. Looking a little deeper, against one side of the bag, there was also a manila envelope. Opening it, he pulled out two photographs, clearly intended to remind him of 'consequences'. With a frown, he shoved them quickly back inside the envelope and closed it again.

He shook his head and pushed himself off the bed. Whatever he intended to do, the first order of business had to be to make sure Hardcastle was truly okay. After that . . . well, after that, he didn't know yet, but first things first.

McCormick exited the bedroom cautiously. He'd feel pretty stupid if someone was waiting for him, just hoping he'd be goofy enough to believe they really intended to let him just walk right out of here. But there was no one in the short hallway, and no one anywhere else in the small house. There also didn't appear to be any sign of the fact that this place had served as a prison for the past few days, but he hadn't yet decided if that was a good thing or bad.

Spotting a phone in the living room, he grabbed the receiver and automatically dialed the number to Gull's Way. The line didn't even complete the first ring.

"McCormick?" came the immediate reply, "Is that you?"

With every ounce of willpower he had, Mark quickly replaced the receiver in the cradle, then plopped heavily onto the sofa. All he'd wanted was to hear the judge's voice, reassure himself that the man was alive and well. He hadn't been prepared for the unvarnished hope that had greeted him from the other end. Three days with no contact, days which Hardcastle had almost certainly spent alternately pissed off and worried as hell—and that would've been _before_ he found out about the bank job—and still when the phone rang, he seemed to expect to hear from his wayward parolee. Unbelievable.

McCormick sighed slightly and glanced down at the duffel he'd dropped at his feet. Whatever small temptation it might've held a few minutes ago had vanished in the space of a handful of words. He sat, running through his remaining options, and decided none of them were particularly good. Then he decided that wasn't particularly unusual, and sighed again as he began making his plans.

00000

Frank Harper tossed the briefcase onto the passenger seat, then slid in behind the wheel. Pulling the door closed more forcefully than absolutely necessary, he exhaled loudly, then closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the seat. Long days were one thing; they came with the territory. But this thing with McCormick was in a category all its own, and he'd be damn glad when it was over. Of course, he hated that when it was over, McCormick would be behind bars and Hardcastle would be disappointed again, but sometimes that's the way life could be.

He was still pondering life's injustices when he felt the movement from behind him. He was already instinctively pulling his weapon from its holster and twisting defensively when a voice spoke.

"Hope you aren't in a big hurry to get home, Frank." And then, a second later, as he completed his turn and leveled the weapon, "Jeez, Frank, it's me!"

Harper didn't lower the weapon. "Where the hell have you been? And what the hell are you doing here?"

"Good to see you, too, Frank," McCormick said sarcastically.

But even though he was running his mouth, Harper was glad to see McCormick had sense enough to keep himself pressed against the backseat, hands in plain sight. He wasn't looking forward to arresting the kid; shooting him might be more than he could handle. "I asked you a question," he said sharply to the younger man.

He watched the anger flash across McCormick's face, though he had the definite impression that the ex-con was putting some sincere effort into controlling it. And all Mark said was, "Don't go all cop on me, Frank. At least not yet."

"It's too late for that," Harper answered shortly. "You need to start talking."

"Has anything happened to Hardcastle?"

The detective had been prepared for excuses, or maybe just non-stop McCormick lip, but he hadn't been expecting the question that was actually presented. "What do you mean?" he countered, becoming alarmed. "I haven't talked to him since this morning, so what do you know?"

McCormick shook his head. "I don't mean now," he explained. "I meant while I was away."

Harper huffed a short, harsh breath. "_Away_? Is that what you're calling it?"

"Frank, _please_."

It was only then that Harper stopped to consider the fear in McCormick's eyes. Up to that point, he'd simply categorized it as a natural reaction of a man looking back at a loaded weapon—not to mention the next twenty years behind bars. He could see now that wasn't entirely the case. He relented slightly.

"He's fine," he said calmly. "Or at least as fine as he can be, wondering where you've been and what the hell you've been doing."

McCormick nodded slowly, speaking almost to himself. "Okay, good. That's what I figured; I just wanted to make sure." He took a breath, and spoke more firmly. "All right then, let's get this over with. You can go cop on me now."

Harper raised an eyebrow in surprise. Keeping up with a Mark McCormick train of thought had always been a difficult proposition, but it was far too late in a long weekend to even hope to manage it now. "What the hell are you talking about?" he growled.

"Hey, you're pretty good at that," Mark told him.

Harper thought the quip probably hadn't come off as lightly as McCormick had intended, and the kid's expression didn't quite pass for a grin, but he put a stop to it anyway. "Do I look like I'm foolin' around here?"

The almost-grin disappeared. "No. But neither am I. I came here to turn myself in."

Still more surprised, the detective simply stared for a moment, then asked, "For what, exactly?"

But McCormick waved that away. "You know what I've done; I know you've got video from the bank, and—Hey," he switched gears suddenly, slapping his hand to his forehead, "I almost forgot to ask, how's that guard?"

Harper just shook his head in disbelief. "Don't ask me stuff like that, Mark," he said wearily. "Jeez, didn't anybody ever teach you anything about admissible information?"

Mark shrugged. "Doesn't matter. It's all gonna come out anyway. So how is he?"

"He's—" Harper broke off and looked at the gun still pointing in the direction of his backseat passenger. "You gonna try anything stupid if I put this down?"

"I was waiting for you," McCormick said reasonably.

"So you were," Harper agreed as he reholstered his weapon.

"The guard?" McCormick prompted.

But the detective had taken something else from his jacket. "I think I oughta Mirandize you before this conversation goes any further," he said, almost apologetically.

McCormick shrugged again. "Okay." He pointed at the card in Harper's hand. "Learned that from Hardcastle, didn't ya?"

"You only have to be on the receiving end of that lecture once," Harper admitted. Then he read precisely from the card, "'You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at the State's expense.'" He slipped the card back into his pocket. "Do you understand these rights as they've been explained?"

"Absolutely. Now you wanna tell me about the guard?"

"He's banged up pretty bad," Harper finally replied, "but it looks like he's gonna make it. The hospital upgraded him to serious condition this afternoon."

"Thank God," Mark breathed.

The detective considered the younger man a moment, looking for an angle, but the relief was clearly genuine. This might all be easier if McCormick were just a bit more _criminal_. He thought maybe he was beginning to understand some small part of what Hardcastle had been feeling. But still . . .

"You know, Mark, I think we're gonna have to move this conversation inside."

McCormick frowned, but didn't object. "Okay." He gestured to the door. "I'll let you go first."

Harper decided immediately he didn't care for the easy way McCormick seemed to slip into the role of prisoner, though he supposed that might serve the kid well in the coming years. He had opened his door to slide out when Mark spoke again.

"Oh, and Frank, I have a duffel bag back here I need to give you. It's closed, and it's safe, but I don't wanna . . . I mean, what do you want . . . how do you want me to—?"

Frank sighed. And this was going to be the easy part; he didn't want to think about what came next. What he finally said was, "You were waiting for me, right? Just hand me the damn thing."

Mark reached down to the floorboard for the bag, then handed it over the seat to the officer. He moved slowly, though clearly that was not hesitation, but a deliberate attempt not to raise alarm.

"What is it?" Harper asked as he took the bag, though he was already pulling on the zipper.

"Ah, my take."

The detective arched an eyebrow as he looked inside. "Looks like this would've taken you a long ways," he suggested.

McCormick just shrugged. "No place I wanted to go."

Harper thought about that for a second, then climbed out of the car, taking the duffel with him. He opened the back door and gestured his prisoner out. "You know I need to frisk you," he said as he closed the door behind McCormick. Mark didn't comment, just turned and leaned against the car, spreading his hands and feet. And when the search was completed, he simply placed his hands behind his back, waiting.

Frank hesitated, but there were an awful lot of overzealous types who'd been looking for this kid the last couple of days. It might be prudent to make it clear he was already in custody. He didn't particularly like it, but he pulled out his handcuffs and snapped them around McCormick's wrists. For his part, McCormick didn't even flinch, but accepted it all silently.

Harper shook his head once, and sighed quietly. He'd been wrong; clearly there was no easy part of this. But it wasn't going to get easier, so he reached to the ground to retrieve the waiting duffel, then placed a gentle hand on McCormick's arm and turned him toward the building. "Okay, let's go."

They walked in silence for a moment or two, then Frank said, "What do you say we stop in my office before we start the official process? You can call your lawyer."

"Doesn't really matter," McCormick answered. "Whatever PD is catching today is fine."

Harper chuckled. "Yeah, right, that'll—" He broke off when he realized McCormick wasn't laughing, not even a grin. He spelled it out. "I meant _Milt_."

"I'm not calling him."

The detective stopped walking abruptly, pulling his prisoner to a halt with him. "What?"

"You heard me," McCormick said calmly. "I'm not calling him. I mean, I figure you'll tell him I'm here, so he can quit wor- - wondering. But I'm not gonna talk to him."

Harper was staring in disbelief. He would've thought this weekend couldn't get any stranger, but that was obviously not the case. "What in the hell are you talking about?"

McCormick's reply was still unruffled. "Look, Frank, we both know how this turns out. You're gonna take me in there and I'm gonna tell you all about my part in this bank job, and then I'm gonna go away for a really long time. Everything else is just extra noise; you're gonna want a lot of details that don't really matter and so's the PD. But Hardcastle . . . Hardcastle is gonna poke and prod and try to make things fit that just don't fit. He's gonna look for reasons that don't exist, and honestly, I'm just not up for that. So I'm turning myself in, and I'm gonna answer all your questions, and then I'll do my time. But I am not going to talk to him."

Harper was still staring. What he finally said was, "He is your parole officer."

McCormick shrugged dismissively. "And since when do POs get special access at interrogations?"

"He deserves to hear the story from you."

For a moment, Harper thought McCormick might relent, but then the young man simply said, "And he will. Eventually. Not today."

"Mark . . ."

"Not today," McCormick insisted.

And suddenly understanding that this might get worse than he'd even imagined, Harper just nodded, and started his prisoner walking again.

00000

"I really don't think this is a good idea," Harper said, pausing outside the observation room.

"You're right," Hardcastle agreed harshly, "it's a damned stupid idea. What I should be doing is going into the _other_ room to get to the bottom of whatever in the hell is going through that thick skull of his. But you won't let me do that, and _he_ won't ask to see me, so this is what I'm left with. So, do you want to let me talk to him, or do you want to get the hell out of my way?"

Harper blew out a loud breath and opened the door, leading the way inside. Hardcastle strode briskly across the small area directly to the viewing window. But he only looked for a few seconds before turning back to glare at the lieutenant.

"He looks like hell, Frank. What happened to him?"

The detective didn't miss the accusation in the tone. "We didn't do that," he objected quickly, "he showed up that way. And besides, it looks worse than it is. I had him checked out; he's fine, just some bumps and bruises. That, and the doc thinks he might be working on a pretty good case of exhaustion; told me to bring him back to the infirmary after we're done with him and get him something to help him sleep. Mark says he doesn't need it, of course, but he admitted he hasn't really slept since he left home." He cast a sideways glance over at the judge. "Me, I think he's just been too worried; wound up tight as a drum. Not that a cell cot is exactly relaxing, but I think he'll be fine when he lays down for a while now."

Hardcastle turned back to the window and looked at the form slouched in a chair, sipping on a cup of coffee. "Whattaya mean, worried?" he asked.

Harper rubbed a hand across his eyes. These two could be their own brand of exhaustion; McCormick was stubborn and Hardcastle could just be dense, though, in fairness, this particular situation wasn't the easiest to grasp. "Worried about _you_." He shrugged. "Don't ask me to explain it, because I don't know. I just know making sure you were okay was the first thing on his list. Nothing else really seemed to be bothering him too much."

"Well there oughta be a helluva _lot_ bothering him," Hardcastle snapped. He drew in a deep breath. "Okay, Frank. We're not gonna figure it out with you out here babysitting me. Get in there and talk to him and find out what's going."

"All right," Frank nodded, "you just sit tight. Here's your files," he tossed a stack of folders onto the small table in the room, "though I still don't know what you think you're gonna find in there; none of it looks like it has anything to do with a bank heist. Or anything to do with McCormick at all, as far as that goes."

"I don't know what I'm looking for, either," Hardcastle admitted as he situated himself at the table where he could watch the interrogation, "but I hope I'll know it when I see it."

The detective hesitated just before exiting the room, then spoke solemnly to his friend. "Milt, you know he came here to confess."

"Yeah," the judge said wearily, "I know. That's why it's gonna have to be up to me." He looked briefly hopeful. "Or maybe _us_."

Harper could admit to himself that nothing in McCormick's behavior this evening was what he would've expected from an apparently reformed ex-con who'd decided to suddenly go on some sort of crime spree; something just seemed off. But he didn't want to get Hardcastle's hopes up too much; this kid was likely still going to prison for a good portion of his remaining life. He settled for, "I need to talk to him," but then couldn't stop himself from adding, "and then we'll see."

He closed the door behind him and started back toward the interrogation room, hoping the pieces would somehow fall into place the way Hardcastle wanted. And that's when it hit him that he actually _had_ been in a hurry to get home.

00000

He had his own file folder in hand when he walked back in to the bright but barren room where Mark waited. He slapped it down onto the tabletop, then dropped into a chair and looked back across the table at the man who was watching him silently.

"You doin' okay?"

McCormick shrugged almost imperceptibly. "Sure." Then he motioned with his cup, "I appreciate the coffee."

"Wouldn't want you dozing off during our conversation," Frank answered, hoping to keep things light for at least a second or two. "Your attorney didn't hang around long," he continued.

"Nah." Mark shook his head. "He thinks I'm making a big mistake, talking to you alone."

"You might be," Harper agreed.

Another head shake. "Lawyers confuse everything; make it all take too long. I'll talk to him tomorrow, after I've had some sleep."

"Your choice." Harper opened the folder in front of him and glanced down at the contents, trying to decide where he wanted to start. He didn't figure an all-encompassing 'why?' would be all that effective, even though that was really the only thing on his mind. But then McCormick was speaking again.

"You did call him, didn't you? While I was talking to my lawyer?"

"I called him." No need to ask who the 'him' was, and no need to quibble over the fact that it had actually been done while the kid was talking to the _doctor_, a good hour earlier than the aforementioned attorney. He'd known he wouldn't be able to convince Milt to stay away—and he wasn't altogether sure that he should—so better to bring him in from the beginning.

"Good. I didn't want him to worry."

"Well I'm not sure this is the best way to go about _that_," Harper huffed. "You think he just dusts his hands off now and says 'oh well, that's that'? He's worried as hell, and he wants to see you."

McCormick looked up sharply. "Don't start. He knows I'm not laying dead somewhere; everything else will have to wait."

Rubbing a hand across his face, the detective nodded slowly. "So, let's start at the beginning. You want to take me through your weekend?"

McCormick hesitated. "Ah, maybe the broad strokes. And, I suppose I ought to start by telling you that there's a Buick out in your parking lot that someone's going to be looking for."

Harper stifled a groan. He didn't like the way McCormick hedged even on the very first question, and besides, wasn't all the crap in the bank enough? That's the thought he put into words. "You stole a car, too? The bank robbery and attempted murder wasn't enough excitement for one weekend?"

"The car's not gonna matter, Frank, and I wanted to get here to you. In the Coyote, I woulda been picked up before I'd made it five miles." McCormick's voice hardened. "And besides, I need to be clear about something; I didn't touch that guard. I was there, and I know that makes me an accessory, but I didn't hurt him. I want you to know that."

The officer studied his prisoner for a long moment, alert for deception, but there didn't seem to be a hint of falsehood in the man's demeanor. "Really not going to matter much," he finally pointed out.

"It matters to me that you—and _he_—know the truth."

"So who did it?" Harper asked. Not exactly the beginning, but this seemed to be where McCormick wanted to start, and letting people talk about what they wanted was almost always the quickest way to get at the truth.

"Guy's name is Randall, that's all I know. Don't even know if that's a first or last name; wish I could tell you more." He sounded genuinely apologetic. "The guy's a little bit crazy."

"He the guy that worked you over?"

McCormick shrugged. "We had a little disagreement."

"Uh-huh." Harper nodded and pulled an item out of his folder, passing it across the table. "Is that him?"

Mark looked down at the photo. "Yeah, that's him."

"So who is he?"

"I dunno, really. A guy."

"And the other guy?"

McCormick shook his head. "Dunno. He used the name Black, but I'm pretty sure it was an alias."

"C'mon, Mark, don't stall me. You just hooked up with two complete strangers and decided to waltz in and rob a bank with them? If you want me to believe anything you say, you shouldn't start with such obvious lies."

The young man sighed. "I know it sounds a little strange, Frank. But I hooked up with them through a mutual friend. It was all kept pretty need-to-know, and names weren't high on the list. I needed some cash, they needed a pair of hands; it worked out for everyone."

"So who was the friend?"

"Can't tell you that, sorry."

"Mark . . ."

"I'm not involving him, Frank. All he did was make an introduction."

"If we don't find these other guys, you're gonna take the fall alone, even for the guard."

"Well, like you said, it's really not going to matter much."

"So what'd you need the money for?" Harper asked suddenly.

McCormick studied his coffee. "I wanted out," he said quietly. "That takes cash."

"Then what're you doing here? That bag had over twelve thousand dollars in it."

"Changed my mind," Mark said, still not looking at the officer. "No one was supposed to get hurt."

Harper was studying him again; there seemed to be far less candor coming from the other side of the table this time around. "Do they know you were turning yourself in?"

"They probably thought I'd change my mind, but they didn't really care. They know I can't hurt them."

"Then what was the disagreement about?"

"What?"

Harper gestured at the bruised face. "The disagreement."

"Oh, that." McCormick hesitated. "It was sort of a negotiation. I did most of the work, thought I ought to get a bigger share."

"And why would that matter, if you weren't planning on keeping it, anyway?" the detective challenged.

"Ah, it was before I'd decided."

Harper leaned back in his chair and pinned McCormick with a long, appraising gaze. "You know," he said slowly, "it would make more sense if you just told me the truth."

But McCormick wasn't backing down. "The truth, Frank, is that I walked into First National Bank on Thursday afternoon under false pretenses and examined their security systems. Then on Friday night, I broke in, cracked their safe, and took a very large amount of money. Unfortunately, in the process, a security guard got hurt; I really didn't intend for that to happen. I even tried to stop it. But it did happen. I had planned on leaving town with my share of the take, just disappearing, but I dunno. After everything with the guard, I just couldn't do it." He locked his eyes on the detective's. "I might've been ready to get away from Hardcastle's domineering attitude, but I didn't want him thinking I'd turned into some kind of monster. I don't know why, but that's the truth."

Harper was still watching the other man closely. Everything he'd just said fit with all of the evidence; it could all be true. Hell, a couple of hours ago, the detective would've put good money on it. But, somehow, Frank definitely thought this 'confession' was starting to sound more like a practiced tale.

"So what made you want out all of a sudden?"

"'All of a sudden'?" McCormick repeated. "It's not like it's ever been a walk in the park."

"But you put up with it," Harper pointed out. "Might've thought you were even enjoying yourself a time or two."

"Just runnin' a game," McCormick said coldly, "biding my time. You know the way he treats me."

"And yet here you are, looking at the next twenty years or so of your life behind bars just so that he won't think that you were the one who clocked the innocent bystander upside the head and left him to die." Harper thought his disbelief was pretty evident.

"I didn't say it made sense."

"No, you stopped your line of crap just short of that." He glared at the ex-con, waiting for something that did make more sense, but it soon became evident nothing more was going to be offered. He tried a different approach.

"Hardcastle thinks this has something to do with one of your old cases."

It was lucky he'd been staring so intently at the younger man, because the flash of emotion that crossed his face was mastered so quickly, Harper would've missed it otherwise. Even so, he couldn't be certain of its true meaning, but he thought it would probably pass for astounded acknowledgement. It was certainly enough to convince him that Hardcastle hadn't been far off the mark, which at least narrowed things down, even if it didn't make much more sense than anything that had gone before. He wasn't surprised by the kid's immediate denial.

"That's just because the donkey doesn't want to admit he was wrong about me."

Harper snorted. "This act you're pullin' in here oughta make that a lot easier."

McCormick shrugged nonchalantly. "Nothin' I can do about that." But the detective didn't miss the hint of sadness in the young blue eyes.

There was a moment of silence, and then Harper sighed loudly. "All right, Mark, if this is the story you wanna stick with, there's not much I can do but go forward with it. But maybe you can do something for me? If we don't have to involve your friend, will you help me ID the other two guys? Look through some mug books; see if we can put a name with the face? There's really no reason you should take the heat alone."

"Yeah, I can do that," McCormick replied without much hesitation, "but I'm not sure if it'll do much good. Sort of had the impression they might've been from out of town, especially Randall. Someplace back east, Florida, maybe."

"Oh, and one other thing," Harper said casually, pushing a notepad across the table. "Think you could give me the plate on the Buick? Looks bad for stolen vehicles to be sitting in the police parking lot."

Mark almost smiled at that as he picked up the pen and jotted down the tag number, then pushed it back to the officer. "It's just a row or two over from yours."

Harper nodded, and collected his notepad and photograph, then glanced at his watch with a grimace. "It's going on ten o'clock, Mark. I'll put you with the books tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay." But McCormick couldn't quite control his own grimace, which Harper understood immediately. An end to the day meant a night in a cell, though with the tale he was spinning, Frank figured the kid ought to get used to it.

Harper resisted the impulse to offer reassurance as he rose from his chair; he really did want McCormick to think about the hole he was digging himself. "I'll have an officer take you to the cellblock."

Mark nodded. "'Kay. But I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah." He stopped at the door. "And I want you to think about one other thing. I really want you to talk to Milt tomorrow."

There was no hesitation at all before McCormick said, "I can't do that, Frank," but then he paused. "But maybe you could do me a favor? Tell him I'm sorry."

Harper's answer was just as swift. "Uh-uh. That's a message you have to deliver yourself." And then he stepped out of the small room, leaving McCormick alone.

00000

"Convinced yet?" Hardcastle said the second the door opened to the observation room.

"Why the hell would he lie about this?" Harper demanded, exasperated. He plopped down in the chair across from the judge. "He obviously intends to get himself thrown in prison, though damned if I know why." He looked back across the table. "You come up with any ideas?"

The judge shook his head. "No. But, dammit, Frank, he won't talk to me, and he's lyin' to you." For the first time that weekend, a shadow of doubt worked its way across his face, and Hardcastle spoke almost fearfully. "What's he hiding, Frank? Who's he protecting?"

But Harper smiled gently. "I don't know what he's hiding," he admitted, "but in terms of who he's protecting, I'm pretty sure there's only one guy he'd take a twenty-year fall for."

"Oh yeah, who?" Hardcastle demanded. "Hollins? Because if he's involved in this after all—"

"Not Hollins," Harper interrupted firmly.

The jurist raised an eyebrow questioningly, and Harper just shook his head.

"Honestly, Milt, Mark's right; you are a donkey sometimes."

But Hardcastle just kept looking back at the detective blankly, and Harper found himself wondering if they did this sort of thing on purpose, just trying to see which of them could try his patience more. "I meant _you_, Milt," he finally said plainly.

The eyebrow climbed even higher toward the hairline. "Me?" Hardcastle barked. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Ah . . ." Frank lost a little bit of steam, but he tried to put it into words. "I already told you once not to ask me to explain it, but I'm tellin' you, I think that kid's been worried about you, and nothin' that he said in there made me change my mind. I mean, listen; he's sitting in my car with a service revolver pointed at him, doesn't know if I'm gonna arrest him or just shoot him on sight, and all he's asking about is you. First thing out of his mouth in there," a quick thumb jerk toward the viewing window, "is about you. And that crap about wanting to be sure you knew he wasn't the one who took out the guard? Hell, that's probably the closest thing to the truth that he said in the whole conversation. He just wants—" He broke off suddenly as Hardcastle rose from the table and crossed quickly back to the observation window. He watched as the older man stared stoically through the glass, watching McCormick led away.

"I should be able to get him out of there," the judge said quietly.

"You didn't do this," Harper told him, at his side.

Hardcastle didn't look away from the empty room. "But you said—"

"Doesn't matter," Harper interrupted sternly. "It might be _for_ you, but that doesn't make it your _fault_. Besides, we'll get to the bottom of it."

And finally, Hardcastle turned to look at his friend. "'We'?" he repeated.

"Yeah, _we_," the detective answered, as he steered the older man gently away from the window. "The kid's lying to me, and I don't like it very much." He gathered the files into a single stack. "So tomorrow, we'll start with these again, and see what we might've missed, and we'll go from there." He was still steering Hardcastle, moving him out the door. "But not before nine," he instructed firmly, "you need some sleep. _I_ need some sleep. Nothing we can do for him overnight, anyway." He didn't get much of a response, just a muffled grunt, which was more encouraging than he'd actually anticipated.

They had walked the short distance back to Harper's office, deposited all the paperwork unceremoniously on top of the desk, and were riding down in the elevator before Hardcastle finally spoke again. "He seems very determined," he said grimly.

"He does," Harper agreed. And he had to be honest with his friend. "Without his cooperation, we may not be able to protect him."

"Yeah," the judge sighed softly, "that's what I'm worried about."

Harper clapped him on the back as the doors slid open and they made their way to the exit. "Come on, Milt," he encouraged, "we're doing what we can." He gave a quick grin. "And besides, I figure between the two of us, we gotta be at least as smart as the kid, right?" The grin faded. "Trust me; we're doing what we can."

00000

McCormick didn't turn to watch the door being closed, but when he heard the latch click into place, he whirled back and slammed his palms against the steel. He would've screamed out in pure frustration, except for the flash of insight that warned him that things weren't quite as bad as they could get. Instead, he leaned his forehead against the cool metal, closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath, and simply waited. After several long seconds, he blew out the breath slowly, willing the anger away with it. Then he turned back and stared at the small room.

He knew, without being told, that this segregation from general population was a combination of genuine concern and power play, though it was undoubtedly the latter that had kept Harper from telling him about it beforehand. He supposed if he hadn't been so busy trying to figure his own angles, he might've anticipated—and tried to prevent—some of the detective's, but it was too late now. He sighed heavily and crossed over to sit on the small cot, contemplating the situation.

The problem, he thought—if it were possible to narrow it down to just one—was that it just wasn't possible to come up with a reasonable story to cover everything that had happened in the last few days. Hell, the truth was crazy enough, even if it had been an option. But he had been sure Harper would never fall for the whole 'honor among thieves' routine, and besides, he was good, but he wasn't sure he could sell that kind of loyalty to those people, anyway. So, since he really _didn't_ know anything about Randall, he'd decided to make that his cover story for the entire ordeal. But Frank had clearly seen through that, as well. Not that he was entirely surprised. He had become increasingly convinced in the past six months or so that he was losing his edge. Which was exactly why he had to stand firm in his refusal to see Hardcastle. Harper might recognize the lie, but he'd never be able to force the truth. The judge was a whole other story. Though Hardcastle had never spelled it out, McCormick had known from the beginning that his first lie to the judge would be his last, and consequently, he hadn't spent any time perfecting the art. No, spinning this story to Hardcastle was out of the question.

Sighing again, he pulled a hand through his hair, and thought that he probably ought to get used to being alone.

**Chapter 3**

Harper stepped into the interrogation room carrying two large photo books and one large cup of coffee. It wasn't much of a peace offering, but maybe—

"You had me segregated?" McCormick demanded loudly before the door had even closed behind the officer. "You had no right."

"In case you hadn't noticed," Harper shot back, all thoughts of peace offerings gone, "you're incarcerated here. Your ass belongs to me right now, and which cell I put you in is my choice, not yours. Though maybe, if you tried coming clean with me about a few things, I might be inclined to consider your point of view on certain ideas. Otherwise, you probably ought to get used to taking whatever's dished out."

McCormick glared back at him for a moment, then said sullenly, "You have my statement."

The detective ignored the glare and moved to drop the heavy books onto the table. "The statement I have," he said reasonably, "is that you were working with unknown accomplices when you committed a violent felony. I certainly have no way to be sure that those men would not try to prevent you from speaking to me, and I have no idea who their other known associates might be. I can't protect you from the unknown."

"They're not gonna come after me," McCormick told him.

Harper didn't address that, either. "Add to that the fact that there's more than a few guys in here as a direct result of your work with Milt, and it seems to be a reasonable precaution to have you in protective custody."

"You knew I'd hate it," Mark accused.

"That was a little bit of a plus," Harper admitted, finally seating himself across from the younger man. "I don't like being lied to. So you wanna tell me yet what really happened?"

McCormick rubbed at his eyes. "You know what happened, Frank," the anger had suddenly been replaced with weariness. "I'm giving you a complete confession; you oughta just have someone type it up and I'll sign it in triplicate. Why are you making this so difficult?"

"Okay," Harper backtracked, "let me rephrase. Are you ready to tell me _why_ it happened?"

"I told you that, too."

"You did," Harper nodded, "but that's where the lies started, and I know you know I know that. You really need to tell me the whole story, Mark; it's the only way I can help you."

"Help me? You think that's what I'm asking?" He shook his head. "All I need is for you to run interference with Hardcastle. I can take care of everything else."

"Hmph. Just a word of advice, Mark. Typically, someone who's taking care of things doesn't end up wearing solid denim, sitting on the other side of this table."

"We might have different perspectives this time around," McCormick conceded. He sighed slightly. "But I told you I'd look at your pictures, and I will." He pulled the first book across the table. "That's the least I can do." Then he looked at the officer hopefully. "You're not drinking that coffee."

Finally Harper smiled slightly. "It was supposed to be a peace offering," he confessed. "Maybe soften you up a little bit." He handed the cup across before continuing. "I really do want you to talk to Milt, you know."

"If it's a bribe," McCormick said, "you might as well take it back."

"Nah," Frank told him, "it's yours." He looked at the younger man carefully. "Besides, you look like you need it. I thought you said you'd sleep."

"I'm fine."

Harper didn't argue the point. "Sure, whatever you say. But listen, about Milt. I'm not gonna quit asking."

Mark nodded as he took a sip. "I can live with that." He opened the book. "You hanging out here with me?"

Harper shook his head and stood up. "No," he said apologetically, "I've got other things I've gotta take care of. I'll be back in a while. Just knock if you need anything, and an officer will help you."

"Okay," McCormick replied, but he was already flipping the pages, looking at the rows of pictures, as Harper slipped out of the room.

00000

Frank was at his desk, papers already spread out and engrossed in the information. It was eight-fifteen, which, he figured, gave him maybe fifteen minutes before Hardcastle came bursting through the door, ready to solve the problems of the world. He had realized years ago that the secret to working with the judge was simply to keep up with the man, but he'd also realized that sometimes that took some advance planning. He had just opened the file labeled 'Arthur Farnell' when he heard two quick knocks on the door. He glanced up at the clock—eight twenty-two—and shook his head with a smile. "Come in."

Harper looked up at his visitor, then pointedly back to the clock on the wall. "I thought I said nine."

"You said we needed sleep," Hardcastle pointed out. "Neither one of us are sleeping. Besides," he held up the items in his hands, "I brought bagels and decent coffee."

The lieutenant laughed. "Hey, you're better at peace offerings than I am." And he briefly related his earlier conversation with McCormick as they sorted out the breakfast and spread the cream cheese.

"So he's okay, then?" Even around the mouthful of food, Hardcastle couldn't hide the concern.

"He's fine. Though I might've been wrong about the sleeping thing; he looks really tired. I'll run him by the infirmary if I have to, though I doubt that would earn me any extra points."

"But he still won't see me?" Now the concern was tinged with hurt.

"So he says."

"And you're still okay with that?"

"I'm not okay with it," Harper objected, "but I still don't think this is the time to force him into anything. We don't know enough yet, and if you go in there, he's just going to shut down even further than he already has. I'm not going to risk that." He shrugged. "He's looking at some books now. I don't know how on the level he is with that, but it can't hurt."

"I thought the bank lady already looked and didn't find anything," the judge asked.

Harper shrugged again. "You know civilians. Really the worst witnesses. Maybe Mark will see something she missed."

"He's a civilian, too," Hardcastle pointed out with a small smile.

But Frank waved a bagel at that idea. "Yeah, but he's adopted onto the job." He paused, brow wrinkled in thought. "Maybe I should remind him of that next time I go in."

"Maybe. Though I still say—"

"Yeah, yeah," Harper interrupted, "I know. You want to go in. And as soon as I get him to agree or feel there's nothing to lose by backing him into a corner, you will. But in the meantime," he continued, deliberately changing the subject, "let me tell you what else we might want to think about.

"First, it's a long shot, mainly because I just don't know how honest he's being about anything, but you know Mark mentioned the Randall guy might be outta Florida. I contacted a guy I know down there in Miami and sent him a couple of photos; he's gonna check around and let me know if he finds anything.

"Second, I got the address on the car he boosted to come here yesterday. Wherever he's been hiding himself the past few days, he probably didn't go far before he secured transportation. I've got a couple of uniforms working the neighborhood, seeing what they can find out. Maybe we'll get lucky."

Hardcastle nodded his approval. "Sounds like you've been busy."

"Somebody I know taught me to cover all the angles." Harper pointed at the files he'd spread across his desk. "Which is why we're going back to these. Tell me what it is about these few that made you single them out."

"I'm not sure it was the most logical process," Hardcastle said slowly. "Though mostly I guess it had to do with cases where I thought maybe McCormick could've been seen as having a lot of responsibility for the result." He glanced at the pages closest to Harper. "Farnell, though, his actually makes the most sense. It's gonna be a long time down the road, but McCormick's gonna be on the witness list against him. Might make sense for him to try and get the kid out of the way. And, even if he's still here to testify, he has a lot less credibility as someone who has to get out on a pass to visit the courtroom. You've got Terry Harlow's file there, too, for all the same reasons, though something like this seems much more Farnell's style than Terry's. And besides, there's no guarantee McCormick's gonna take the stand against Harlow; their case could be made without him. The DA needs him for Farnell."

Harper nodded and made a couple of notes. "Okay, so we definitely want to talk to Farnell, and at least get an alibi for the weekend. Although since his latest game has become training people to follow in his footsteps, I suppose he could've hired someone to handle this."

"He might've, but I think Artie would've preferred to handle this himself." Hardcastle paused. "If it was him," he added. "Honestly, I don't think it was, but of all the cases we've worked on, he's the one guy who actually has something of a reason to go after McCormick." He tapped on another file. "And maybe Martin Cody, but he's still sitting in a cell; never granted bail."

"So who has a reason to go after you?" Harper inquired.

"Me? I'm not the one sittin' in lock-up."

"Donkey," Frank muttered into his coffee. Louder, he said, "Look, if I wanted to get to you, but not take you out . . . just discredit you, or plain make your life miserable, what do you think I'd do?"

The judge looked back blankly for a moment, then shook his head. "Uh-uh. You're not saying they went after him just to get to me?"

"That's _exactly_ what I'm saying. That's what I'd do, and I'm not the only one who could piece that together."

"C'mon, Frank, he's a parolee. He works for me. He's—"

"Your friend," Harper finished calmly.

Hardcastle sat for a moment without offering any further argument. What he finally said was, "Well, hell, they _all_ hate me. That's not gonna narrow it down much."

"Maybe not," Harper chuckled, "but some gotta put you at the top of the list more than others. Are _you_ getting ready to testify against anyone? You know, if your testimony included anything about Mark's contributions, the DA might want to downplay that under these circumstances. Anybody who benefits from a situation like that? Or anyone who would simply recognize your connection to the kid more readily than others and be inclined to take advantage of it?"

"Frank," Hardcastle huffed, "I barely recognize that 'connection' myself. You want me to figure out who else might?"

"Covering all the angles," Frank reminded him, still grinning. Still, he didn't let his friend squirm too long. He grabbed another file, not nearly as aged as some of the others. "What about, um, Denny Collins?" He flipped through the pages. "I don't really know about this one."

"Oh, he's a car guy," the jurist said, "racing and auto parts. At least, that's what it said on the letterhead. Financed it all with some major auto theft. Personally, I think what we're dealing with now is out of his league, but he had a pretty strong McCormick angle. I never would've been there if not for the kid."

"Your notes say he was granted bail awaiting trial, but not his flunkies?"

"Isn't that always the way? He goes back to his mansion and his boy, Larry, and the rest of 'em get stuck inside."

"So, would he do something like this without his right-hand man?"

"I don't know, Frank," Hardcastle suddenly snapped. "You know, I'm not some kinda damn shrink. I brought these files more on a hunch than anything else. Because I didn't believe that McCormick really pulled that job. But now he's sitting down the hall, confessing to the crime, and it's become not a question of _if_ but _why_. You're singing a song that this is all because of me, but dammit, I don't know how to figure it out. We could go through every file in my basement and never find the answer until McCormick tells us what he knows. Without that, it's all just guesswork, because I just don't know."

Harper was accustomed to the older man's outbursts, particularly when things weren't going according to the Hardcastle Plan, so he wasn't fazed by this one, though he didn't care for the undercurrent of guilt in the man's words. But he took a moment to let the silence be, letting Hardcastle think about all the things he already knew, but wouldn't want to hear right now. He calmly wrote 'out of his league' next to Denny Collins' name, then set that file aside. Then he looked back at the judge and started to tell him the things he already knew.

"First of all, Milt, let's be clear on the meaning of 'because of you'. Someone may, in fact, be after you, and they may have decided the shortest path to you was through the kid. That doesn't make it your fault. I don't want you to forget that.

"Secondly, this," he passed his hand over the accumulated papers, "is just groundwork; you know that. I'm not looking for concrete answers; I'm just picking your brain a little, trying to get a feel for these guys. And seriously, I'd trust one of your hunches over a whole bunch of evidence most any day of the week." He stopped for a second, then added sheepishly, "I'm just sorry it took me a while to do it this time around." He grabbed another file. "Now who's next on the hit parade?

"Tina Grey," he said with a grimace.

Hardcastle matched the expression. "That got pretty ugly. But I don't know. Word is, she's doing an awful lot of talking and making a pretty good deal for herself. But there's a lot of people involved in that thing. Jersey Joe Beiber. And Filapiano." He practically spat out the last name.

"Well Tina Grey's been under pretty tight wraps, anyway," Harper told him. "I don't know that she could've orchestrated it, even if she'd wanted to. But Beiber managed to bond out. And, of course, charges haven't been finalized yet against Filapiano."

"Don't know what they're dragging their feet about," Hardcastle grumped.

"You do know," the detective contradicted. "The DA's been working closely with IAD, and they're going to make sure everything's in place before they file charges against a police captain. They can't afford to make a mistake, and they don't want to interfere with anything ongoing over here. It's really been a pretty amazing case of cooperation, if you want to know the truth."

But Hardcastle didn't seem to be appeased. "Yeah, except that he gets to keep walking around like he didn't do anything wrong."

"He was suspended."

"Hmph."

Harper didn't pursue the argument, but he added Don Filapiano's name to his list of people to question. Clearly it was personal for Hardcastle; might be safe to assume that worked both ways. He was reaching for one final file when the phone rang.

"Harper." He listened for a moment, a small satisfied smile coming to his face. "Excellent." He scribbled a few things onto his notepad, then held up a hand to forestall Hardcastle's questions. "That's it? Okay. Yeah, get the lab guys out there and get those citizens back here. Maybe somebody can recognize this guy. Good work, Lance." And he hung up the phone.

He didn't wait for the questions. "House up in La Crescenta," he said. "Found a couple of neighbors who recognized Mark and Randall and pointed them in the right direction. Coyote's in the garage. Neighbors say there was another guy, too. Say Randall's been there the longest; moved in a couple of months ago. The other guy has been in and out for a few weeks. They only saw Mark once, just a couple of days ago, and only noticed him because of the car.

"The house is a rental," Harper went on, "they've got a call in to the owner to find out about the current tenant. House itself is pretty clean, not much that's obviously useful; the techs will process it and see if we get anything. Only one thing out of the ordinary."

"What?" Hardcastle prompted when Frank hesitated.

"One bedroom. Handcuffs and ropes on the bed frame. Said it looks like someone might've been tied up there."

"So he was being held," Hardcastle said definitively.

"Maybe," Harper said slowly. "But how do we prove that?" He shook his head. "Awfully hard to make a case for kidnapping if the victim won't speak up."

The judge pushed himself to his feet abruptly. "I'm gonna ask him." And he was out the door before Harper could object.

The lieutenant was immediately on his feet and rushing after Hardcastle. "Milt!" He grabbed at an arm and pulled the judge to a stop. "I know you're getting impatient, but this is not the time. Let me ask him." Harper didn't say anything further, just locked his eyes on the older pair, and waited for Hardcastle to remember that this wasn't his station anymore.

"He's just gonna lie to you again," the jurist finally muttered.

"Maybe, but what leverage do you have? Gonna threaten to pull his ticket? In case you haven't noticed, that's exactly what he wants."

"All right." Hardcastle heaved a sigh. "But I'll be in the observation room; I at least want to hear what he has to say."

"Fair enough," Harper agreed, and they continued down the hall.

00000

"So why La Crescenta?" Harper asked as the door swung open.

McCormick looked up in surprise. "Huh?"

"Why'd you pick there for your hideout?" Harper crossed to the table, but didn't sit. Instead, he braced his hands on the back of the chair, and leaned toward McCormick, an intent glare on his face. "And how'd you swing the house, anyway?"

"Ah . . ." McCormick didn't like the shift in the detective's attitude; that could be dangerous. But still, the number one rule was always Don't Lie Unless Necessary. "The house isn't mine; I think you know that."

"Whose is it?"

Mark thought about that for a second. "I'm not sure," he said honestly. "I would guess Randall's." Though that seemed a little odd to him, now that he thought about it. Randall clearly wasn't the guy in charge, but the house seemed like his home. He dismissed the idea. "Why?"

"How long have you been working with these guys?" Harper asked, without answering McCormick's question.

This was definitely a necessary lie, though he wasn't sure what the right answer might be. He hoped for the best. "Not long; couple of weeks."

"A big job for just a couple weeks' planning," Harper observed, not sounding convinced.

McCormick shook his head. "They'd had it scoped out for a while, but they lost their vault guy; got picked up on a beef up in Sonoma County, so they said. They needed a replacement, I needed—"

"Cash," Harper interrupted. "Right. I heard that part. So they trusted you pretty quick."

"Told ya, we had a mutual friend."

"Well, listen, I'm just wondering why, if the mutual friend vouched for you, and they took you into their confidences so quickly and all, why they found it necessary to tie you to the bed up there in La Crescenta?"

"They . . . didn't," McCormick replied, though he could admit to himself that wasn't the question he'd been prepared for, and even he didn't believe the answer. He was definitely losing his edge.

"Then who were you guys holding prisoner up there?" Harper demanded.

"What?" He hadn't been prepared for that, either. "No one. What're you talking about?"

"Well, it looks like someone was being held there against their will. What with the _disagreement_ you had with Randall, I thought maybe two and two went together, and it was you. But if not, then it must've been someone else. So on top of everything else, are we gonna have to add kidnapping charges to the list?"

Mark swallowed hard. He could recognize intimidation when he heard it, especially baseless intimidation, but that didn't mean it couldn't be effective. Besides, he could give Harper this without really giving up anything. If he was careful. He thought quickly.

"Saturday was a little tense," he began. "That guard on Friday night wasn't supposed to be there then; he was off his route. It messed up all the plans. No one was supposed to get hurt. I really had tried to stop Randall from beating him, and that caused some problems. Saturday, I tried to call the hospital to check on him, and the guys came unglued. Then I tried to renegotiate my share, which also didn't go over too well. By Saturday night, I had decided I wanted out. Told them I was going back to Gull's Way, turn myself into Hardcastle. They thought I was crazy. I reminded them I couldn't hurt them; didn't know enough to bring the heat to them, but they still didn't think it was a good idea. They overpowered me and tied me to the bed. Told me I could do whatever I wanted after they had time to disappear. Yesterday they left. I got myself untied and came here, and here we are." There. He thought that wasn't too bad. And, most important, irrefutable.

"Mark . . ." Harper seemed saddened by the answer. "You sure there's nothing else you want to say about that?"

"Nothing else _to_ say," McCormick told him firmly.

Harper shook his head once, then pointed at the mug books. "You havin' any luck with those?"

"Not really. 'Bout what I expected."

"Yeah," the detective sighed. "About what I expected, too." And he disappeared out the door, leaving McCormick alone again.

00000

"Yeah, well that's always been the problem," Hardcastle was saying as they rounded the corner to Harper's office, "the damn kid has an answer for everything."

Harper grinned, though there was nothing amusing about this situation. "That's for damned sure."

They both pulled up short at the sight of the man pacing in front of the lieutenant's office, obviously warring with himself. They watched him stop at the door and raise a hand as if to knock, only to snatch the hand back down and turn away and begin the pacing again. It didn't seem to be the first time he'd repeated the pattern.

Harper raised a quizzical eyebrow at the judge.

"Beats me," Hardcastle muttered, but he took the lead as they closed the remaining few feet that separated them from the other man. "Teddy! What're you doing here?"

Teddy Hollins whirled around mid-pace, a look of horror on his face. He quickly pulled his left hand behind his back. "Judge! What're _you_ doing here?"

"I asked first," Hardcastle told the ex-con, smiling sweetly. "What's going on?"

"Ah, nothing. I was . . . was . . .um . . ."

Grinning slightly, Harper stepped into the mix. "Teddy, were you looking for me?"

"Ah, Lieutenant Harper. Sort of. I mean, maybe." Teddy cast a nervous look back at Hardcastle.

"And did you maybe want to show me something?" he asked, pointing at the item not-quite-concealed behind Hollins' back.

"No," Teddy said quickly, still keeping an eye on the judge. "I was just a little worried about Mark, is all. Wondered if there'd been any leads in, ah, finding him?"

Harper threw another questioning look at Hardcastle. Two ex-cons lying to him in one day wasn't something he really wanted to experience. But Hardcastle just shrugged.

"Teddy," Harper said in his most officially pleasant voice, "why don't you step into my office and we'll talk for a minute."

"Well, no, if you're busy . . ." But then the older men flanked the ex-con and ushered him through the doorway, leaving him no choice. "Okay," Teddy amended, "let's talk in your office then."

Harper rounded his desk, but didn't take his seat, though he gestured the younger man into one of the visitor chairs. "What's on your mind then, Teddy?" he asked. He watched Hollins twist around to look at Hardcastle, who had moved into the room, but was clearly standing between himself and the exit. Harper understood the effect the judge could have on some people, but he realized he suddenly had no compunction against strong-arming this kid. Somebody needed to start telling him the truth.

"If it's about McCormick," Harper continued to Hollins, "then it involves the judge, so why don't you just say what you came to say?"

"Then you haven't found him yet?" Hollins asked, with what Harper immediately labeled as genuine worry.

The officer opted for the truth. "He's no longer missing; he's in custody."

"He's _what_?" Teddy cried. "What for? He hasn't done anything wrong." He turned to look behind him again. "Judge, he would never do anything to let you down; you know that."

"Why don't you tell us what's on your mind, Teddy?" Hardcastle suggested, and he moved to drop into the chair next to the ex-con.

Hollins ran one hand nervously over his hair; his other still clutched tightly around a manila envelope. "I don't know what's going on exactly," he began slowly, "and I'm not even sure if I should be here, but I'm worried about him." He looked pointedly at Hardcastle, then back at Harper. "But, Lieutenant, wouldn't it be possible for us to speak in private?"

"No." Two voices spoke as one, and Teddy flinched at the stern solidarity.

"What's got you worried?" Harper asked.

Teddy sighed, looked longingly at the door for a few seconds, then jumped slightly when the man next to him cleared his throat loudly. "Okay. Here's the thing. Mark came to see me yesterday, and—"

"Yesterday?" Hardcastle interrupted. "When yesterday? And why didn't you call me?"

"I don't know when, exactly," Hollins blustered, "yesterday afternoon." He didn't quite meet Hardcastle's eyes. "And I didn't call you because he asked me not to. I sort of thought maybe he was going home. He didn't exactly say that, but I was hoping. But I called the gatehouse all last night and this morning and never got an answer, so I figured he didn't go back."

"He came here," Harper interjected quietly, "we've had him in custody since. What did he say to you, Teddy?"

Hollins shook his head. "He just said some bad stuff had happened that he had never intended to happen, and he needed to fix it." He glanced over at Hardcastle. "Then he said something kinda weird. Said he wasn't sure he could fix it _with_ the judge, but he knew how to fix it _for_ him. Didn't make any sense to me, but he wouldn't explain. Said it was better if I didn't know."

Harper shook his own head wearily. More guilt without information he figured Hardcastle could live without. "What else?"

But Teddy just shrugged. "Nothing else; he wouldn't tell me anything about what was going on. But then he gave me this." He held up the envelope weakly. "Said I shouldn't open it, ever. Told me just to hold on to it unless you came looking for it, Lieutenant."

"Me?" Harper was surprised.

"Said you were the only one I should give it to; you were the only one he'd send for it." He turned to look beside him. "I'm sorry, Judge, but he specifically said _not_ to give it to you."

Harper finally dropped into his own chair as he looked across at his long-time friend, but Hardcastle's face had become a mask. Too late, he realized he shouldn't have tried to strong-arm Teddy at all, and should've granted his request for a private conversation. But there was nothing to do now but move forward. He reached across for the envelope.

"Whatever it is," Teddy said as he handed it across the desk, "will you tell Mark I'm sorry? But the way he was acting . . . I don't know. He was scared. Scared like I've never seen him before, not even in prison. I just thought you should have it." He stood up from his chair. "Can I go now?"

Harper was surprised the younger man didn't even want to see what was in the envelope, though he supposed Hollins might think that an even greater betrayal. "Sure, Teddy, go ahead; we'll call you if we need anything more. Thanks for bringing this, though; it was the right thing to do."

"Sure," Hollins replied without much conviction. He stopped at the door. "Can I see Mark?"

"Sorry," Harper told him, hating the answer, "he's not allowed visitors yet."

"Okay," Teddy acknowledged softy, and closed the door behind him.

"You should've made him stay," Hardcastle said once the door was shut.

"Why? You think he was lying?"

The judge shook his head. "But I've been wrong before."

"Not lately," Harper assured him.

Hardcastle harrumphed and swiped his thumb across his nose, then pointed at the envelope lying on the desktop. "So, you gonna come up with some excuse to get rid of me before you open that thing, or you just gonna kick me out?"

"Would either way work?"

"Don't think so."

Harper smiled slightly. "I didn't think so, either." He rummaged in his desk for a pair of rubber gloves, then reached for the envelope, undid the clasp, and lifted the flap. Sliding two photographs from inside, he looked briefly, then said, "I think we're getting a lot closer to 'why'." He laid them carefully out so that Hardcastle could see the images without touching them.

One of the eight by ten prints was actually a collage of sorts, with Hardcastle in a variety of different locations: shopping at the grocery store, talking with a teller at the bank, at a Lakers game, standing in line at the concession stand at a movie. But in each frame, Randall could be seen, never more than a few feet away, looking carefully at the judge. The message seemed clear, though Harper doubted this was the first thing Mark had heard about it.

But if that message seemed clear, the next photo seemed to be screaming its point aloud. A single photo, Hardcastle sitting on his patio, reading the paper. It might have been an idyllic scene were it not for the fact that the photo had been snapped through the scope of a rifle, the target sightlines clearly imposed on Hardcastle's head.

"Milt . . ." Harper trailed off when he realized that he really didn't have any type of encouragement to offer.

For his part, Hardcastle just sat silently, staring at the photos, and Harper was sure he was trying to figure out just how mad you could be at someone who would willingly throw his life away for yours.

It took several minutes, but Harper supposed he should've expected the first comment that Hardcastle finally made. "I want to see him."

The detective let the silence stretch for another moment, trying to find anything close to a reason to refuse, but he doubted he was going to find anything that could override the simple, painful expression that filled his friend's eyes, so what he said was, "Okay."

00000

They had agreed Hardcastle would go in alone, though Harper had been far less confident in that decision than the judge. But he _had_ agreed, so this time he waited alone in the observation room, watching through the window.

McCormick was still looking diligently through the books on the table—and Harper was still wondering how much of that was just for show—when Hardcastle stepped into the room.

McCormick glanced up nonchalantly, but then stiffened perceptibly when he saw who was standing across the table. "What're you doing here?"

"I'm worried about you."

Harper watched the young man's eyebrows shoot up into his hair, and couldn't say he was surprised. Hardcastle was rarely so straightforward about his feelings. Too bad McCormick didn't follow suit. "I'm fine."

"Hah." Hardcastle slid the chair out and seated himself, laid a thin file folder next to him on the tabletop, then folded his hands on the table and looked calmly back at the other man. "You wanna try that again?"

But McCormick just shook his head and rose to his feet. Without another word, he crossed to the door and gave two quick knocks. When there was no immediate reply, he knocked again. "Officer Brandt!"

"He's not coming," Hardcastle said, and Harper had to admit he was impressed the man was able to maintain the outward composure.

It took a couple of minutes, and some increasingly frantic pounding on the door, but McCormick finally seemed to accept that no reprieve was coming and turned to shuffle back across the room and slouch into his chair. "What do you want?"

Hardcastle wasn't quite able to completely hide the hurt that flashed across his face, but his tone was even when he asked, "Since when do I need a reason to talk to you? Besides, I told ya; I've been worried."

"Frank coulda told you I was okay," Mark answered, softening just a little.

"Frank's not sure you're okay," Hardcastle told him. "In the first place, you look like hell. I give you a few days off and you can't take better care of yourself than this?"

McCormick managed a small grin. "Must've gotten used to having you around." But then the grin faded as he looked up into the older eyes. "I really am okay, Judge. And I'm really sorry."

Hardcastle matched the tone. "You want to tell me what's going on?"

McCormick shook his head slightly. "I told Frank."

"Yeah, but he's not too sure about _that_, either."

"So what're you, then?" the ex-con asked, bitterness creeping into his words, "The big guns? I told him I didn't want to see you. I know he couldn't have been unclear about that part of it."

"I outrank him."

"You're not even a goddamn cop," McCormick contradicted. "And even if a judge trumps a cop, you're _retired_."

Hardcastle shrugged. "When it concerns you, I trump everybody."

Mark sucked in a breath. "Then you're the one that needs to understand this. I robbed a bank, Judge. I broke into the building, cracked the safe, and took the money. That's it; end of story. Nothing else matters."

"_Why_ matters," the judge insisted.

"Because I—" McCormick faltered a second, then finished weakly, "—wanted to."

Mark didn't make any immediate attempt at a more convincing argument as his gaze tore away from Hardcastle's, and Frank suddenly understood the young man's refusal to see the judge: the kid couldn't lie to him. He could throw around the attitude, and engage in a lot of half-information and misdirection, but he couldn't lay down a complete, blatant, unadulterated _lie_. That was an interesting piece of information. Of course, it was still a long ways from having the truth served up on a silver platter, but it was interesting, just the same. He watched as Hardcastle slid the file folder into the small space between them.

"That's okay," the judge began, "you don't really have to answer; I know why." And he opened up the folder to spread out the two photographs, now carefully contained inside plastic evidence bags, and let them make his point.

Harper saw the young man stare silently for several long seconds—trying to figure a new angle, no doubt—then saw his shoulders slump in defeat. "Ah, Teddy," Mark sighed.

"Teddy was worried about you," Hardcastle told him. "Everyone's worried about you. Now you want to come clean with me?"

But, unbelievably, McCormick just shook his head firmly. "This doesn't change anything."

"The hell it doesn't," Hardcastle huffed, some of his composure finally slipping. "You think I'm gonna let you throw your life away out of some misguided attempt to protect me?"

McCormick remained calm. "Actually, I meant that sort of literally, Judge. This doesn't change the fact that I broke into a bank, cracked the safe, and illegally removed a very large amount of money. I'm pretty sure nothing can change that."

"Nonsense. I've gotta teach you about intent."

"Intent?" Mark let out a small laugh. "Hardcase, I _intended_ to sneak in and take them for everything they had. I think I did a pretty damn good job, too."

"Dammit, McCormick, this isn't a game."

"No." The young man sobered. "It isn't."

Hardcastle pinched at the bridge of his nose. "All right, maybe you've got a point about intent, I suppose; it's really a question of motive."

This time McCormick didn't seem at all amused. "Trust me, Judge; I don't think motive has much to do with it at all, and I've got a couple of years personal experience to back that up."

Harper saw the anger building in Hardcastle's eyes, and thought maybe the two had had enough alone time. He hurried from the observation area and around the corner, and let himself into the interrogation room just in time to hear the end of Hardcastle's shout.

"—prison for the rest of your stupid life!"

"It's my life!" McCormick shouted back.

The judge was on his feet, leaned across the table, glowering down at the ex-con. "In case you've forgotten," he was saying coldly, "it was supposed to be _my_ life for the next couple of years or so. You're supposed to be doing what I say."

"Is that what this is about?" McCormick demanded. "You're upset because you're gonna lose your lawn boy?"

"Don't answer that, Milt," Harper broke in firmly as he crossed the room. He stood at the head of the table, holding an appeasing hand out toward each of them. "Milt, why don't you sit down? And, Mark, why don't you try and dial back the attitude and zip the lip for once?"

The glares didn't leave either face, but Harper was relieved when the judge slowly took his seat and McCormick didn't immediately offer any more heated comments. He dragged up a chair and seated himself, then turned his attention back to his prisoner.

"So," he began conversationally, "you've been lying to me."

"Not entirely," Mark argued, though without much conviction, his eyes suddenly focused on the pattern his fingertip was tracing on the tabletop. "I really did rob that bank. Has everyone forgotten that?"

"I knew that three days ago," Harper pointed out, "it's the _reason_ I've been wanting to get from you. You let me down."

"Yeah, well, and I wanted you to keep him outta here, so maybe we're even."

"Mark."

McCormick finally looked back at the officer. "All right. I'm sorry. Is that what you want me to say?"

"Nope. What I want is for you to tell me what happened. I want to know who you were working with; who's responsible for those photos?"

He couldn't help but notice that even with just a quick glance at the pictures, McCormick couldn't quite stop the small shudder that ran through him, and Harper felt sorry for the kid. "Look, Mark, you don't need to worry. This isn't just your responsibility any more. As of about thirty minutes ago, Milt's got official police protection; we'll keep him safe." And the detective had to work to hide a smile of satisfaction at his own quick thinking. Of course, Hardcastle wouldn't want protection, but there'd be no way for him to object to it under these circumstances. He was glad the judge had calmed down enough to go along.

"That's right, kiddo. Let them do their job. Just tell us who it is and we'll find 'em, and Frank can keep an eye on me until we do."

McCormick gestured to the mug books. "Whatta ya think I've been trying to do? I told you I don't know anything about that Randall guy, except that I don't think he's from here, but I'm looking. Brandt brought me another book; I'm almost through the K's now, and still no sign of him, but I _am_ looking. What more do you want? Trust me; I'd like to find him. The guy's dangerous; he oughta be off the streets, but I don't know him."

Harper thought that sounded pretty sincere, though it did carefully avoid full disclosure. Hardcastle beat him to the next question.

"What about the other guy?"

McCormick shrugged, and directed his answer to the lieutenant. "Told ya, he used the name Black. I haven't seen him in the books, either."

"You know _one_ of them," Harper insisted, "at least. All I'm asking for is a name."

"I don't have a name to give you, Frank; I can't help you."

"Can't? Or _won't_?" Hardcastle demanded.

"Ends up the same," Mark replied, still not looking at the judge.

"You know we have other witnesses now," Harper interjected, not letting the exchange escalate. "If we can't find a mug shot of this Black character, we'll get a sketch; someone will know him."

"Maybe. But that someone won't be me."

"Well, I'm not gonna just sit here and watch you destroy your life," Hardcastle declared angrily, pushing his chair back loudly as he stood.

"No one invited you to the show," McCormick told him.

The judge shook his head wordlessly and stomped to the door, where he gave a pre-planned knock and then disappeared as soon as the door was opened.

Harper was staring with undisguised anger. "All that man wants is what's best for you."

"Yeah." Mark rubbed at his forehead. "Then I don't think it should be so difficult to understand the reverse." He let his eyes meet Harper's. "Will you really make him take protection?"

The detective thought about delivering a long and loud lecture, trying to break through the thick head he was dealing with. But the young man was so clearly genuine in his concern, so obviously well-intentioned, that honesty seemed the only approach. "I'll try," he said. "Truth is, he'll probably put up with it for a day or so, as long as he thinks it has a chance of bringing you around, but after that . . ."

"Couldn't protect him forever, anyway," McCormick said forlornly. "I knew that from the beginning."

"That's why you're here, right?"

"It's the only way, Frank."

"And these guys, the ones you don't know and can't name, you trust them so much that you're willing to give up your life on the chance that they're going to keep their end of the deal?"

"Only because it's the only chance I have," McCormick told him. "And because I think it's possible they'd rather screw around with Hardcastle than actually kill him. Doesn't mean I don't think they would," he added quickly, "because I don't think they have any qualms about killing, but I think they'd rather discredit him, if they had their choice." He shrugged half-heartedly. "I'm giving them a choice."

"But if we knew who and why, we could find them, put them away. Then he'd be safe."

"That's not a chance I'm willing to take." He pulled the photo book toward him again. "I'll let you know if I see anybody I recognize."

Recognizing a dismissal—and a lost cause—Harper collected his own photos, and exited the room.

00000

It was a couple of hours later when the door opened again. Mark lifted his head groggily off the table and looked up at the man in the suit who was now seating himself across the table. "Hey . . ." He rubbed at his eyes, thinking. " . . . Lazenby."

The newcomer's face was clouded with anger. "I can't believe they're keeping you in here like this. How long've you been in this room?"

McCormick shook his head. "Ah . . ." He lifted his wrist, realized he wasn't as awake as he'd hoped when he didn't find his watch, then tried to explain. "I dunno, but, really, it's okay. I'd rather be here than in my cell, and they—" He paused for a moment to let himself understand. "They know that," he continued, and he thought that was really pretty decent, all things considered. He continued his reassurance to his attorney. "This really isn't something you need to worry about."

Lazenby didn't seem convinced. "No one likes being in a cell, but—"

"They've got me in PC," McCormick interrupted, though he doubted that this young man in his navy blue suit and power tie could possibly understand.

"So what's the difference? At least in there you could lay down."

"I don't know," Mark sighed lightly. "The officer brings me a new mug book every now and again, along with a fresh cup of coffee. The room's a little bigger; the walls are white, not grey . . . look, it doesn't matter, okay?"

The other man still seemed uncertain, but he nodded once as he pulled a legal pad from his briefcase on the table. "I feel obligated to tell you," he began, as he looked back at McCormick, "I was approached by Milton Hardcastle today."

"'Approached'?"

"He's offered to represent you," Lazenby explained. He shrugged slightly. "I think you should probably consider it. First of all," he went on quickly, "the man's something of a legend, even if we're dealing with the federal level; having him on your side could only be a benefit. And secondly," he consulted a file quickly, "somehow, he's your parole officer, right? It would probably look good if he still maintained enough faith in you to defend you."

"I'm satisfied with my current representation," McCormick said. "And besides, I can't afford his retainer."

Lazenby knitted his brow. "I had the definite impression he was willing to work pro bono."

"The cost is higher than you know."

"Well," the attorney continued, "he has also offered to serve as second chair, if you don't have any objections to that."

"Hah. Trust me when I tell you that Milton Hardcastle doesn't take second chair to anybody. Now listen," McCormick was suddenly serious, "he's trying to make your job more difficult than it has to be. You don't need to pawn this case off on anybody else, and you don't need a second chair. I just need someone to stand up with me at the arraignment and get me through sentencing. I'd do it myself, but then Hardcase really would come unglued. Anyway, just tell him thanks, but no thanks."

Lazenby was still staring quizzically. "Sentencing? We're not going to mount a defense?"

"No. Though there actually is one thing I want from you; work with the US Attorney to drop the assault charge."

"The assault?" Clearly, Lazenby didn't understand his client at all. "That's almost the least of your worries, now that it looks like the guard's going to be okay. It's only a few extra years. What you need to do is defend the robbery."

"There isn't a defense to make on that," McCormick told him, "but I didn't do that guard, and I don't want to plead to it. Surely that's not gonna be a deal breaker for anyone. No one in their right mind is gonna risk a trial when I'm willing to given them a confession. Like you said, it's only a few years difference. You make them understand the logic, okay?"

"What about the other guys?" the attorney asked suddenly.

"What about them?"

"Are you willing to name them?"

"That's not an option, but it shouldn't matter. They'll get a conviction, which is what they're really concerned with. Anything else is gravy."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure," Mark said definitively.

"The sentence won't be negotiable, if you're refusing to give up the others. Especially since the bulk of the money hasn't been recovered." He looked intently at his client. "Twenty years is a long time."

"Yeah, I know. Just work it out, okay?"

"Okay." Lazenby still didn't seem convinced, but he was placing his notepad back into his briefcase. "I'll get to work on that angle. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

McCormick shook his head. "I don't think so. Just make sure you don't let Hardcastle badger you into anything."

For the first time, Lazenby smiled slightly. "He does seem to be rather tenacious."

"Tenacious," McCormick repeated with a snicker, "yeah, that's one word for it, all right. But seriously, you just tell him to mind his own business; that we've got things under control. He's not gonna like it, but he doesn't get to pick about this, okay?"

"Okay," Lazenby agreed as he moved across the room. "I'll remember." And he disappeared out the door.

00000

Hardcastle's face was red as he slammed his front door behind him and trudged into his den. He deliberately didn't look out his window as he moved behind the desk and grabbed the phone to dial a familiar number. His foot was tapping quickly as he waited through the ring.

"Harp—"

"I thought what we discussed was minimal protection?" the judge interrupted angrily.

"It was," Harper replied evenly, "and it is."

"That's what you call it?" Hardcastle demanded. "There's a car at my gate, and one right in front of my house, and that's not counting the guy that followed me home and then posted himself at my front door. I'd hate to see your idea of _maximum_ protection."

"They could be inside."

"Over my dead body."

"That's what we're trying to avoid," the detective reminded him.

"Oh, come on. I thought what we were trying to do was outsmart the kid."

"You come on, Milt. Either you believe he was coerced or you don't."

"Of course he was coerced," Hardcastle harrumphed.

"Then you could be in danger," the detective said reasonably. "Until we get a better handle on what's going on, I'm leaving some guys with you."

"If you really thought I needed that much watching over, you shouldn't've run me outta your office. What's safer than the police station?"

"Well, yeah," Harper chuckled, "but then one of us woulda ended up needing some kind of protection from the other. And there's no tellin' what might've happened to poor Mark before the day was over."

"I wasn't being _that_ bad," the older man grumped, though he took the long silence from the other end to be a disagreement. "But he's being damned hard-headed about this," he finally added as a defense. "Won't even let me work with his attorney. What the hell is his problem?"

"His problem, as you well know, is that he doesn't think he can protect himself and you at the same time. And you gettin' pissed off about it over and over again is exactly why I sent you home."

Hardcastle put a palm to his forehead and dropped heavily into his chair. "I hate this, Frank," he said, his voice suddenly low and sincere. "There has to be a way for me to help him."

"The thing is, Milt," Harper said gently, "right now, there isn't. He's either gonna have to decide to help himself, or we're gonna have to find the other guys. He put himself into this hole; he has to get himself out."

The words made Hardcastle remember something else. "But you're not gonna let him talk you out of PC?"

"Nope. In fact, I sent him back to his cell right after you left. The two of you might be too stubborn to take care of yourselves, but, fortunately, I have some authority in this situation." He paused then added thoughtfully, "As much as I hate to say this, in some ways, he's better off that this is a federal beef. He'll be a lot safer up in Lompoc or something. Not too many people will know him there."

The judge closed his eyes and shook his head. "That's not exactly the reassurance I was looking for, Frank."

"No," Harper agreed, "probably not. But it's the best I can do right now. I'll let you know if anything changes."

"I'll be waiting," Hardcastle answered, and ended the call.


	2. Part 2

**Chapter 4 **

The first real break in the case—if you discounted the confession from Mark McCormick—came just a couple of hours after Lieutenant Harper had reclaimed his office. He fielded the return phone call from his contact in Miami and was rewarded with a name. 

"He's been going by the name Randall Conroy for a while now," said the voice on the other end of the line, "but the folks up in Pinellas County say his name is Rodrigo Costa. Hired gun for the organized families up there, and he plays it anyway they want. Doesn't seem to make any difference to him if he kills, maims, or just scares the bejesus out of someone. And he's strictly freelance; no particular affiliation with anyone, which is a little bit unusual among that crowd; makes him something of a strange one."

"Makes him pretty damn dangerous, I'd say," Harper replied.

"That, too. Anyway, folks down here say he dropped out of sight four or five months ago. They thought maybe someone finally took him out, but I guess he just decided it was time to try the other coast for a while."

"Lucky us. Okay, well at least this gives us a place to start. I'll contact Pinellas if we need anything else. Thanks for all your help."

The phone rang again almost immediately; the second call nowhere near as positive, but one he'd been expecting for several hours now.

"Your clock is ticking, Lieutenant," a voice said sternly.

"You said twenty-four hours," Harper reminded the man.

"Which gives you less than eight remaining. Do you have anything for me yet?"

Frank sent up a silent prayer for good timing; if this call had come first, things would've been a lot more tense. "I got a name." No sense being too specific about where the information came from; better if the big boys think McCormick was finally cooperating. "Randall Conroy, AKA Rodrigo Costa. Hired gun out of Florida originally; mainly organized work."

"Well, that's something at least," and Frank was glad the man sounded at least slightly appeased. "But we still haven't found him."

"My guys are still looking; your guys are looking. We'll find him." Then he added, "We'll find them both. McCormick will do the right thing." He tried not to think about the idea that McCormick already thought he was doing the right thing.

"You have seven and a half hours," was the last thing he heard before the line went dead.

The detective hung up the phone with a heavy sigh and thought for a moment, then decided to make the trek down to the confinement area. He hoped he'd have a plan of attack by the time he got there.

When a young officer let him into the dim cell, he wasn't surprised to see that McCormick wasn't sleeping, though he'd wanted to be wrong about that. He didn't get a chance to express his concern.

"I thought maybe you were done with me for a while," McCormick said sullenly. "If you're trying to show me how long days can be in here, trust me; I don't need that lesson."

"I didn't figure that was anything you were likely to forget," Harper told him, as he leaned against the door, "though there's never anything wrong with a little reality check just for a refresher."

Mark rolled his eyes. "Did you want something?"

"I want a lot," the lieutenant said calmly, not responding to the bitterness, "but I don't seem to be getting much of it from you. Though I did get a name on your friend, Randall. Turns out one thing you haven't been lying about is the fact that he's out of state talent."

"I've been tellin' the truth about more than you think," McCormick replied, though Harper didn't think he put much effort into selling that particular point. "But if you know who he is, does that mean you found him?"

Harper shook his head. "Nah. Got some information from a guy down in Florida, so I guess I ought to thank you for pointing me in the right direction on that."

"I just hope you can find him. The guy really is dangerous."

"Maybe it'll help, maybe it won't," Harper answered with a shrug, "but it sure can't hurt." He waited a long moment then asked, "If we do manage to pick him up, will you give us the other guy?"

McCormick smiled grimly. "Randall's dangerous, but he's a hired hand. He's not the real threat to Hardcastle."

The officer hadn't been expecting such a straight-forward response, but he didn't let his surprise slow him down. "Has it occurred to you," he asked suddenly, "that you haven't yet been questioned by any federal agents?"

"I had sort of wondered about that," McCormick said warily.

"So far they've been content to let us—_me_—deal with you, but they're not going to have much more patience, and frankly, I don't blame them. You're telling me that there are two guys out there somewhere who not only ripped off a bank, seriously injuring a man in the process, but who also present an ongoing threat to the life of a retired superior court judge, and you don't think it's important enough to give up their identities. Honestly, I think the feds couldn't care less about Milt, but there's an awful lot of federally insured money still floating around out there, and right now, you're the only link to it they've got. If you don't give me something soon, they're going to come swooping in here and seriously make your life a living hell."

Mark spread his hand across the small distance that separated him from Harper. "You mean as opposed to this picnic in the park that you've arranged for me?"

"I'm not fooling around."

"And neither am I," McCormick snapped. "Don't come in here and start leaning on me, Frank, because it isn't gonna work. If I was worried about anything you—or the feds—could throw at me, I wouldn't've come back here in the first place; I woulda just taken my money and disappeared."

And Frank had to wonder how someone could be so strictly logical while still being so incredibly lame-brained all at the same time. If they all got through this even mostly intact, he thought he might have to point out to the kid how truly infuriating that could be. For now, he thought maybe he should just bring him up to speed, keep him talking.

"So Randall—though his name's really Rodrigo Costa, not that it matters—is a freelancer for the mob."

"Really?" Mark raised an eyebrow. "Well, I don't suppose that surprises me all that much."

"And why is that?"

But that was as far as the conversation got before McCormick seemed to realize that he'd already said more than he intended. His face was suddenly the picture of innocence and he gave a lazy shrug. "I dunno. Just seemed awfully professional, I guess."

Harper studied the other man for a moment, decided he wasn't buying it, but then decided it wouldn't do any good to push it. "Okay," he said, "that's really all I know for now. I just wanted to let you know that we're working on something of a deadline here if you hope to keep this even remotely friendly. The federal boys are not going to appreciate the secrets that you keep."

McCormick nodded his understanding. "Thanks for the warning, but it really doesn't change anything." Then he looked around hopefully. "Think they'll be so mad they'll stick me out in general population just to teach me a lesson?"

Harper shook his head. "It's still my jail," he said with a small, humorless smile. Then he rapped quickly on the door. "Maybe," he continued, as the door swung open to release him, "you ought to spend some time thinking about just how many levels of the government you want to piss off at once." Then he let the steel clang closed behind him, without giving McCormick a chance to respond.

00000

McCormick only realized that he had finally fallen asleep when he was awakened by a sudden slash of light that came through his now open cell door and a brusque voice that bellowed, "On your feet, McCormick!"

He didn't have to give it much thought as he instinctively obeyed the authority in the tone and pushed himself up off the cot to stand waiting for . . . whatever was coming next. Then the officer approached, stopped far too close for personal comfort, and spoke far too loudly for such close quarters. "Now turn around, and give me your hands."

Mark forced himself not to sigh as he complied. He felt the handcuffs being roughly applied, and figured this was just another one of Harper's 'reality checks'. Up to this point, the officers that had been responsible for shepherding him around the facility had been models of courtesy, and had obviously been informed that he wasn't any type of a danger, as no restraint of any kind had been used. He was pretty sure it was SOP when moving guys from the detention blocks back over to the interrogation areas, though, even without cuffs, he had to believe the opportunity for escape was pretty minimal. And, of course, he thought it ought to be clear to everyone by now that escape was the last thing on his mind. Still, as he felt the beefy hand pull on his arm and heard the almost shout say, "Let's move," he had to admit that Harper would get a few style points for the way he chose to deliver his message.

As they ambled through the seemingly endless corridors, moving from the confinement areas back over to the operational end of the facility, McCormick was watching the activity, trying to figure out just what time of day it was. Alone in a confinement cell, with no routine to judge by other than three meals a day, time pretty much lost its meaning, and once you fell asleep, that was it. Until someone came through the door again, there was just no way to determine, and Mark hated it. He'd tried asking his escort early in their journey, only to be told 'Time for you to shut up', and then the officer had laughed to himself like he was going to be the Next Big Thing. McCormick had shut up.

Now he walked silently, gathering his own information. It was hard to tell much from the detention blocks, especially since they had only barely skirted the general population cells, but it hadn't yet been lights out, so it obviously wasn't as late as it felt to him. On the other hand, now that they'd moved back into the police station proper, he could tell that it was definitely well past normal business hours. There wasn't the bustle of important-looking suits, or the milling about of dozens of clueless citizens. This was just the routine of cops going about their business, carried on with the air of people who knew full well that crime was not a nine-to-five operation. All in all, he thought it would be a lot easier if they'd just hang a clock in the hallway. Still, he was guessing maybe only seven-thirty, even though it felt like about a hundred hours had passed since Frank had sent him back to that hell-hole.

But even seven-thirty was kind of late for a typical interrogation, and he would've thought Frank would be long gone by now, which was starting to give him a bad feeling about this excursion. But he didn't have much time to consider the full ramifications before they arrived at the door to the room he was beginning to think of as a second home. He tried to stifle the sigh as the officer reached to push open the door then steer him inside. But he stopped short as he saw the assembled faces around the table, all staring at him expectantly. Harper was there after all, but more surprising was seeing Hardcastle next to him. And next to the judge were two unfamiliar men in gray suits.

_Feds_, McCormick immediately decided. He thought it was probably going to be a long night.

"This is the one causing all the trouble?" one of the federal agents asked, giving Mark a quick glance. McCormick thought this wasn't the time to be offended by the obviously disdainful tone. But still, he'd always hated being questioned by the superior type.

"This is Mark McCormick," Harper said, his unusually formal tone causing Mark just a bit more worry. "Mark, these are Agents Walsh and Carruthers."

McCormick nodded once, silently, then shifted slightly to allow his escort to remove the handcuffs, but they both froze when a stern voice said, "Leave them."

Everyone was suddenly staring at Agent Walsh. Then the uniformed officer shifted his gaze to Harper. "Lieutenant?"

"Don't ask him," Walsh snapped. "I said leave them."

McCormick saw the grimaces on the faces of Harper and Hardcastle, but he understood the idea that once the federal guys moved in, they started throwing their weight around in some of the strangest ways. So he wasn't surprised when Harper shook his head once at his officer, then jerked a thumb quickly toward the door to dismiss him.

He was surprised, though, when the door had no sooner closed than Harper stood and rounded the table, then moved to begin removing the handcuffs himself.

"Harper . . ." Walsh began dangerously.

Harper didn't slow his movements. "He's still my prisoner," he told the agent, "and this is still my facility. You want to fill out the paperwork to move him to a federal detention center? I'll be glad to sign off on it. But in the meantime, _here_, we restrain prisoners as a function of security, nothing else." McCormick thought that might be just a little bit hypocritical, all things considered, but this wasn't the time to make that point.

Harper slipped the cuffs into his pocket, and motioned McCormick toward a chair. "This man doesn't present a threat," he concluded, then he moved to reclaim his own seat, offering no further explanation.

McCormick took his seat silently, grateful for the intervention, and suddenly hoping that Harper would understand that he really hadn't intended to put anyone into the middle of a turf war. Though, he supposed, he ought to've seen that coming. An ex-con who happened to be in the current employ of a retired judge, and who also—by the strangest series of events—had managed to befriend a local police detective, and then decided to commit a federal felony . . . Yeah, he probably should've realized there might be some jurisdictional tension.

But though Walsh frowned slightly, he seemed to take the dissension in stride. "So, McCormick," he began, "let me make sure my program is up to date. You've confessed to the robbery at First National. You admit you didn't work alone, but—even though Lieutenant Harper seems to be a friend of yours—you're refusing to cooperate and release the names of the others involved. And this man," he waved a dismissive hand in the direction of the judge, "claims to be your attorney, even though I spoke with a man named Walt Lazenby just earlier today. Do I have everything straight?"

"That's not a bad start," McCormick answered coolly. "I have confessed to the crime, but to be clear, it's not that I'm refusing to name names, it's that I don't have names to give. And as for Judge Hardcastle . . ." McCormick hesitated briefly. He still didn't like the idea of having the man around for any of this, but he suddenly found that he liked the idea of demeaning him—even a little bit—in front of the arrogant Walsh even less. "He is part of my defense team," he continued confidently, "and I prefer to be represented during any interrogation."

Walsh's frown grew, but he apparently knew better than to challenge a prisoner's right to representation, regardless of what he might think about the particulars. He simply nodded his understanding.

And then Carruthers was speaking for the first time. "So you don't know the names of your co-conspirators," he said to McCormick, as he opened a file folder, "but I understand that you were introduced to them through what you refer to as," he glanced down, "a 'mutual friend'?"

"That's correct," Mark replied, carefully not looking across the table at Hardcastle. This was the weakest point in an altogether weak story, and the only point on which he couldn't claim ignorance, but had to simply refuse to cooperate. That was dangerous under any circumstance, but he certainly wasn't comfortable with his parole officer watching him lie to federal agents and deliberately stonewall their investigation.

"Then, logically, this mutual friend knows who they are."

"No doubt," Mark agreed.

"Then give us that name," Walsh chimed in, "and it'll make things look a lot better for you."

"Can you make bank robbery look better?" McCormick wondered innocently.

"It could help," Hardcastle interjected, and McCormick shot him an evil glare, wishing that the man wouldn't try to play his part.

"I'm not involving my friend," the young man said firmly.

There was a moment of silence, and then Walsh said suddenly, "What is it that you want, McCormick?"

McCormick arched an eyebrow. "Meaning what, exactly?"

"Meaning exactly that," Walsh responded smugly. "A guy like you, there's always an angle; always a price. It's easier if you just tell me up front what it is, then we'll know if we can negotiate."

With a small shake of his head, McCormick pinched at the bridge of his nose. "Okay, let me make sure _my_ program is up to date. You're asking me my price for selling out a friend?"

"Yes."

McCormick could feel his face reddening, and he saw his own indignant anger mirrored on the faces of his friends. Knowing that Walsh was just trying to push his buttons didn't seem to be much more of a comfort for them than it was for him. But, of course, this was only the beginning, and they all knew it was only going to get worse. He forced a civil tone.

"You can't afford me."

But Walsh didn't seem impressed. "Come on, McCormick. You're a two-time loser looking at a minimum of twenty years in a federal facility. You've got a price."

Suddenly, McCormick wasn't nearly as concerned with the agent's insinuations against his character, as he was his choice of words. Hardcastle jumped on it, too.

"Minimum?" the judge asked.

"We want everyone involved," Walsh told him matter-of-factly.

"You want the money," Hardcastle contradicted.

"That would do."

"But I don't have the money," McCormick objected.

"And we believe that," Carruthers said. "So you should give us a name."

This was a pretty subtle approach to good cop/bad cop, McCormick thought, but he couldn't shake the memory of Walsh's carefully placed words.

Even Harper was looking worried, but it was Hardcastle who pursued the point. "And if he doesn't?"

"We'll be pursuing maximum charges."

"The assault?"

"Among other things."

"I didn't do anything else," Mark said, not bothering to take the time to deny the assault. This had the potential to go downhill very quickly.

"What you did is going to be more than enough," Carruthers said, not unkindly.

"Yeah. See, we've been talking to our lawyers, too," Walsh added. "To begin with, there's the issue of obstruction of justice."

"You can't prosecute him for the way he chooses to handle his defense," Hardcastle objected angrily.

"Protecting the name of an uninvolved party isn't a viable part of any defense strategy; it's obstruction, plain and simple. And it carries a five year sentence."

"If you can make it stick," Harper muttered.

"What else have you got?" Hardcastle prompted.

"Then there's a little problem with the FDIC." Walsh consulted his own file briefly. "If I understand it, before you and your friends actually carried out the robbery, you went on a little reconnaissance mission to examine the bank's security systems?"

McCormick glanced quickly across at Hardcastle, though he already knew the answer. No sense denying something he'd already confessed to. Besides, there were pictures. "So?" he asked warily.

"And in order to facilitate that research, you had to call off the officially scheduled inspection?"

"You've read his statement," Hardcastle interrupted, holding out a cautionary hand toward his client. "What is your point?"

"Well, you see," Walsh began smugly, "by providing false information to the sanctioned security company, he was, by extension, providing false information to the FDIC. He interfered with their lawful operation. That's another two years."

McCormick thought the man was being too arrogant for just seven extra years, though he couldn't believe his mind could process that as 'just' seven extra years. He supposed that once you resigned yourself to twenty, seven seemed almost inconsequential. But he doubted it would feel that way inside. He grated out the question. "What else?"

"Well, it seems there are a lot of sub-sections in the bank robbery statute." Walsh was almost gloating. "Just entering the building is one offense; actually taking the money is another, and they each carry their own penalty. Together, they're thirty years. Then there's the part about committing an assault while you're committing the robbery. That one's twenty-five."

"You can't successfully prosecute those as separate offenses," Hardcastle said confidently, and Mark felt a small measure of relief.

"Our attorneys are willing to try," Walsh assured him, and Mark's relief vanished. "They admit," he continued slowly, "that separating the actual theft from the break-in might be difficult; they say we might have to settle for a max twenty years on that. But they are confident they can show the assault as a completely separate offense, and one that's severe enough to warrant its own maximum penalty. And," he finished triumphantly, "we're recommending that all the sentences be served consecutively."

McCormick felt the color drain from his face as the words sank in. He barely heard Hardcastle and Harper's immediate cries of disbelief, nor the agent's angry return arguments. Only one thought clamored for attention in his brain, and it was repeating itself incessantly, in rising panic.

_Fifty-two years. **Fifty-two years. Fifty-two years!**_

"I can't." The words were quiet. McCormick hadn't even realized he'd spoken aloud. But suddenly the arguments stopped and all eyes stared back at him from the other side of the table. After a few seconds, it was Hardcastle who spoke.

"Of course you can't," the jurist said, and he sounded incredibly relieved. "Just tell them what they want to know."

But McCormick shook his head slowly, then his gaze found Hardcastle's. "I mean I _can't_, Judge." He paused, then spoke clearly to Agent Walsh. "I don't know the names of the guys with me, and I won't involve my friend."

From the corner of his eye, Mark could see the sadness cross the faces of his friends, but it was Walsh's expression of clear incredulity that held his attention. He found he could take a small measure of satisfaction from confounding the man.

But then Carruthers was speaking again. "Lieutenant Harper has advised us of his theory that there was some coercion involved in securing your participation in this crime, Mr. McCormick. And his further belief that your refusal to cooperate is due to fear of reprisals from the other perpetrators. Do you have any comments on that?"

It was McCormick's turn to stare, though his was directed not at the agent, but toward the other end of the table at Lieutenant Harper.

"You ought to think about answering the man, Mark," Harper said calmly.

McCormick turned back to Carruthers. "I never said that," he said carefully, "and it won't be presented as a defense."

Walsh jumped back into the mix. "Let me be clear about something, McCormick. I don't believe for a minute that you were anything other than a willing participant from the get-go. And my guess is that you've been promised a big chunk of money if you'll just take the fall for the others. That's why you need to think long and hard about the charges we're pursuing. You get out when you're fifty or so, you might still have plenty of time left to spend your take. But we _will_ put you away for fifty years, and even if you survive it, at eighty, all that money isn't going to be worth much. So if you've got something to say, this is the time to say it."

Mark sighed heavily. "And you'll make me a good deal, right? Because you figure every man has his price."

"Don't you?" Walsh challenged.

"Probably," McCormick admitted. "But let me ask you something. Agent Carruthers over there is your partner, right? Now I don't know how long you've been working together, but I'll assume that—like most police officers—your partner is important to you. That you feel some sense of responsibility for his protection, just as he would for you? So my question is, what would it take for you to serve up his head on a platter? When you figure that out—when you come up with a price for _that_—you come back and see me and we'll see if we can work out a deal. In the meantime, you have my statements."

"That's a dangerous position, McCormick," Walsh said as he rose from his seat. "We've got Costa's name now, and when we find him—and we will—and he starts talking, your opportunity to cut a deal is going to disappear." He turned his attention to Hardcastle. "I suggest you make your client understand." Then he gathered his partner with a look, and the two agents left the room.

"God," McCormick exhaled as soon as the door had closed. He looked across at the judge. "Can they really make that happen?"

"Probably," Hardcastle said evenly.

Mark felt the single word like a sudden fist to the gut, and he closed his eyes and drew in a steadying breath. Then he looked back at the older man. "I'm glad you were here," he said sincerely.

"I would've been here all along," Hardcastle pointed out. "And I _will_ be here as much as you'll let me."

McCormick felt his first genuine smile in days. "I know." But then the smile paled. "But will you let me do what I need to do?"

The judge frowned. "Look, kiddo, this is getting out of hand. Either Frank or the feds really should be able to find this Costa guy, but it might take a while. And my guess is, since he's out here freelancing away from his normal family guys, he's not gonna feel a lot of loyalty to whoever's paying his way, so he probably really will give up the other guy, with the right incentive. And," he added pointedly, "for any normal guy, fifty years behind bars is pretty good incentive."

"But—"

"But nothing," Hardcastle interrupted. "My point is, you're trying to make some kind of sacrifice thinking you can protect me, but eventually, it's all going to come out, whether or not it comes from you. If you're right, if whoever this is really would come after me, then it's going to happen either way. You ending up in jail for the rest of your life isn't going to help. And besides . . ." He hesitated for a long moment, apparently choosing his words carefully.

"Besides what?" McCormick finally encouraged.

"I was just wondering," Hardcastle continued at last, "if he really does come after me, who's gonna watch my back if you're sittin' in a cell?"

Mark's eyes widened. "That's not fair."

"You expecting me to go along with this hare-brained scheme of yours isn't fair," Hardcastle countered. "I just want you to consider the full ramifications."

"But Frank can—"

"I can't keep him under wraps forever," Harper chimed in.

McCormick leaned back and glowered across at the other two men. "You know, I don't need this kind of guilt," he said angrily.

"And neither does he," Harper shot back, gesturing toward the judge. "You need to put an end to this thing."

"I can't end it," Mark said sullenly as he slumped down into his chair. "No matter what I say at this point, nothing's going to change what I did."

Hardcastle leaned forward, jumping on the first sign of weakness. "Listen, McCormick, if you'll just tell the truth, we can at least build a defense around that. You know, those statutes Walsh was throwing around in here, they don't have minimum sentences; he's talking about the maximum—worst case scenarios. They can only make that stick if you let them. If you don't defend yourself, if you don't cooperate, you'll be playing right into their hands. Let me help you make this better."

McCormick thought about that for a long moment. He decided that he appreciated Hardcastle not trying to make any blanket promises about how everything would be okay; making things 'better' was probably the best he could hope for. But he pointed out the obvious. "Making things better might get me a shorter sentence, but it doesn't keep me out of jail, so I still wouldn't be around to help watch your back. Your argument isn't holding a lot of water, Hardcase."

"Dammit, McCormick—"

"Look, Mark," Harper broke in, "you're assuming that if you tell us who they are that we're not going to be able to find them, which would leave Milt in danger and you locked up. But you need to give us this chance. You name these guys, let us get them in custody, we'll have the opportunity to prove the coercion. We'll do that and protect him at the same time."

But suddenly, McCormick shook his head firmly, his resolve returning. "I haven't seen anything yet that makes me believe you'd put this guy behind bars, Frank. I think I need to stick to my earlier statement."

Harper and Hardcastle exchanged a disappointed look, and Hardcastle drew in a breath to continue the argument.

But McCormick held up a staying hand, and grinned fractionally. "Don't make me fire you the same day I hired you, Hardcastle."

The judge pursed his lips tightly for a few seconds, then blew out a breath. "I'm not giving up, ya know," he said, swiping a thumb across his nose.

"Yeah, I figured." McCormick was still grinning. "But I learned being stubborn from you."

Hardcastle harrumphed. "Well I wish you woulda started with a different lesson." He pushed himself to his feet. "You're gonna be okay?" he asked, all pretense gone.

"I'm fine, Judge," McCormick answered, matching the tone, "really."

Harper was rising, too. "I'll have you escorted back to your cell, Mark."

"Okay. But—"

"The _same_ cell," Harper told him staunchly.

Mark sighed soundlessly and didn't push it any further. "Okay."

It was only after his friends disappeared out the door that he realized he really should've asked someone for the time.

**Chapter 5**

The second break in the case came in the form of another phone call from Florida, patched through to Lieutenant Harper's home just before four the next morning. Harper had passed along his suspicions to the folks in Pinellas County, and pointed out that now would be a fine time for the man to think about returning home; Pinellas had issued an APB; and Randall, AKA Costa, had deplaned from an overnight flight from Los Angeles to Tampa, where he had been immediately taken into custody. Harper secured an assurance that the man would be held for twenty-four hours, and he, in turn, promised that he would have the extradition arranged before the day was over. Then he hung up the phone, whispered an apology to his long-suffering wife, and rolled out of bed.

00000

Frank had decided almost before he'd gotten his clothes pulled on that he would wait for a slightly more reasonable hour before notifying Hardcastle, but that he needed to talk to McCormick right away.

With very little traffic out and about yet, the drive to the office had been quick, and Harper had taken the time to stop for fresh coffee and half a dozen donuts. He'd thought about having McCormick brought to his office—he was genuinely beginning to hate this interrogation room—but then decided that Walsh would never understand that, and that neither he nor his prisoner needed any hint of impropriety. So instead, he sat in the sterile room, waiting for the ex-con to be delivered yet again.

"You know, seriously," the grumbling began as soon as the door opened, "for someone who says they want me to get some sleep, you're sure making that difficult."

Harper grinned slightly and motioned the uniformed officer out of the room.

"But I do appreciate doing it without the cuffs this time," McCormick continued as he slipped into his seat across from the detective.

"I didn't figure you were likely to try and escape."

"I wasn't last time, either," Mark pointed out with a small smile.

But Harper waved that away. "I was trying to make a point; no time for all that right now." He pushed one of the foam cups across the table. "Coffee?"

"Thanks." McCormick took a sip, then nodded approvingly. "So what's up?" he asked, rubbing a hand across his eyes. "And, hey, what time is it, anyway?"

"About five," Harper answered. He pointed at the box on the table. "And there's donuts, if you want 'em." He paused, then fixed a steady gaze on McCormick. It wasn't exactly that he doubted the picture the young man had painted, but he wanted to see the reaction to this news.

"We got Randall." That was all Harper said, then he simply waited.

But if McCormick had any concern over that fact, he was a better actor than Harper would've given him credit for, as relief was the only reaction to be seen.

"Thank God," Mark said. Then he seemed to think of something else. "He wasn't trying anything? Against the judge, I mean?"

"No," Frank assured him, "Hardcastle's fine. He was picked up in Florida."

"Okay, then." He pulled the box closer and lifted the lid, then smiled. "Oh, good; a powdered one. Thanks." He took a bite, then spoke a little thickly. "I suppose this is another bribe. What is it you want at five o'clock in the morning, Frank?"

"It's time for the whole story, Mark," Harper said flatly.

McCormick raised an eyebrow. "Didn't we just have that conversation?"

"Things are different now," Harper explained. "Your window is closing. Let me tell you what's going to happen after we talk. I'm gonna start making phone calls and filling out way too many forms to get the guy extradited back here. And as soon as that happens, there won't be a way to keep it from Walsh."

"He doesn't know already?" McCormick interrupted.

"Nah. We local guys stick together; they called me. Anyway, as soon as he knows the guy's in custody, then he's either gonna have some of his Florida Bureau guys swoop in and take over, or he's gonna hop a plane and take care of it himself. Either way, once Randall's in federal custody, it's not going to take long before he starts looking for a way to better his position. And from where I'm sittin', serving you up as the fall guy is going to be the easiest thing for him to begin with, particularly for the assault. Now, my first question is, when the hospital finally lets me talk to the guard today, is he going to be able to back up your story in that regard?"

"You mean, have I been lying about that, and the guy's gonna blow my story apart?"

"No," Frank huffed, exasperated at the defensiveness, "I mean, did the attack take place in such a manner that he's going to be able to identify his attacker? And, better yet, was he conscious long enough to know you tried to intervene?"

"Oh." Mark looked abashed. "Then, yeah, at least to the first part. He'll be able to ID Randall easy. I don't know about the rest; I was a little preoccupied."

"Okay. Then it's time to get the real story on the record. If you wait until Randall starts talking and then try to refute it, you're going to lose a lot of credibility. We need to hear it now."

"Frank—"

"I know you're worried, Mark. And I can't make you any kind of guarantees. But I can promise you this: if you do this thing, if you let yourself take the fall for this, you are not going to be the only one who suffers. The time when your decisions were all about you ended about six months ago when Milt pulled you out of a cell."

McCormick dragged a hand through his hair. "Again with the guilt? You guys have really got this down pat."

Harper ignored the bitterness. "You think I'm exaggerating?"

"No," McCormick said heavily. "But I think alone is better than dead."

"Do you really?" Harper demanded. "Because I'm pretty sure you've spent the last three days arguing that you'd rather take your chances in general population than be isolated."

"That's not the same thing," Mark said sullenly.

"Just something to think about," Frank told him, "because he doesn't have fifty years."

"There's no way to protect him," McCormick objected.

"We've already got Randall," Harper pointed out. "That's half the battle."

But McCormick shook his head. "Not really. Hired help, I told ya. I'm pretty sure this Black character knows plenty of mob killers."

"Oh yeah?" Harper asked the question mildly, waiting to see what more might be offered, but no further information was forthcoming.

"Sure. Where there's one, there's more, right?"

"Right." Frank let a moment of silence pass, then said, "Maybe we could compromise?"

"I'm always interested in cooperating with my local law enforcement officials. What did you have in mind?"

Harper grinned at the oh-so-proper tone. There was no denying that the kid amused him, though he thought this might not be the best time for such a light-hearted approach.

"If I let you stick to your ridiculous story that you don't know the guy," the detective began, "will you at least go on record with what really happened? You have _got_ to start building your case here, Mark. Milt will tell you that duress is a hard defense to make."

McCormick seemed to be giving that a lot of thought. Finally, his shoulders slumped as he let out a very small sigh. "That wasn't the deal, Frank," he said very quietly.

"You made a deal with him first," Harper said, just as quietly, "so which is more important?"

Mark locked his gaze on the older eyes in front of him. "And what if they kill him?"

"What if they don't? Or, what if they do anyway? Our best chance at stopping them is to know the truth."

McCormick rubbed at his eyes, the confusion obvious on his face. Harper sat silently and let him work through whatever he needed to. Finally, the young man spoke.

"No names," he said firmly. "And I'm not making any promises that I'm going to let it be used as a defense. But . . . I suppose I can tell you how it went down."

"I'll take it," the detective said, and reached into his jacket for his notebook and pen. "Just start at the beginning."

Mark seemed to be thinking that over. "Do you know the last thing he said to me? When I left last Thursday?" And when Harper just shook his head, the kid let out a breath and said, "'Don't do anything stupid, McCormick.'" He shook his own head. "Pretty simple, huh? But I can't even get that right. I'm a little surprised he didn't tell you to turn me over to the feds right from the start."

"You've got that part all wrong," Frank said gently. "He never believed you were guilty, not once. You should know that."

McCormick seemed to relax a little bit at that idea, and smiled slightly. "Made you a little crazy then, didn't he?"

Harper laughed. "A little, yeah. But I should've learned a long time ago not to doubt him."

"Well, can't blame you for that," McCormick said practically, "Gotta go with the percentages."

The thought flashed through the lieutenant's mind that maybe it was that kind of easy acceptance of reality that made him like this kid so much; such a complete lack of pretense was a pretty good foundation for trust. Yeah, he really should not have doubted Hardcastle on this one. He just smiled and tapped his pen on the notebook. "The beginning?"

"Right. So I left the estate and stopped at the grocery store for a few things." He grinned slightly. "It's only a few hours to Vegas, but if something should go wrong, I'd hate to be stranded in the desert without a bag of Bugles or something. Anyway, so I get my stuff; the Coyote's parked just across the street. When I come out of the store, I can see that there's someone kind of bent over the driver's side, but they're not touching it or anything, so I don't think too much about it." He shrugged. "People are always looking at the car, ya know?"

"I can see where it would attract attention," Harper said dryly.

"But I'm not a _complete_ dufus; I hold up a little, and don't just go barreling up to the guy. I called out when I got closer, and the guy straightened up, smiling all friendly like. It was Randall. He called back, and made some comment about the car. I dunno. Maybe I _am_ a dufus. You'd think by now I'd be able to recognize crazy a mile away, much less standing right in front of me." He shrugged in resignation. "But I love to talk about the car. I answered back and walked over right next to him, and the next thing you know, I'm pointing out something about the interior design and he's pointing a gun. Damn. I just never saw it coming. And while I'm trying to decide if there's a way to make a break for it without getting myself or anyone else passing by killed in the process, I feel another gun jammed into my back. Then Black is there, clapping me on the shoulder like we're old friends, making quite the show of it. Now I'm sort of stuck, so I let them lead me back to their own car. Black cuffed me—in front, very smooth, I'm sure no one noticed anything out of the ordinary, even though there must've been a dozen people around—and put me in the front seat. Then he cuffed me again to the door; he was nothing if not thorough. So he takes me and Randall takes the Coyote, and then we end up at the house in La Crescenta. You know, the only thing I was thinking then was that it was sort of strange that they hadn't blindfolded me, or stuck me in the trunk, or something. I figured that was sort of a bad omen, that they let me see both their faces, and their hideout. But that was before I knew they had plans for me.

"Anyway, they took me inside, and told me to call Teddy and tell him the trip was off." McCormick looked across the table, his expression as puzzled as if it were all happening anew. "I still don't know how they knew what they knew, but they had it all. But then Black left me alone with Randall, and for a minute, I thought if there was going to be a chance for escape, that might be it, while it was one on one, even if I was still cuffed and he did still have a gun. I thought about it for a minute, but honestly, Frank, up to that point, I thought it was just your typical kidnapping. You know; do what they say, figure out what they want, find a way out. That's life in the Bat Cave, ya know? I made the call."

"That was the smart thing to do," Harper said.

"I'll tell you, Frank, in retrospect, I'm not sure anything I did was the smart thing to do." Mark drank from his coffee—maybe gathering strength—and then continued. "But, I was going along. Then Black came back into the room, so even if I _hadn't_ wanted to go along, two armed guys against one un-armed, handcuffed guy makes for kinda steep odds. But that's when things started to get interesting. The first thing when he walked in, ol' Blackie looked at Randall and told him, 'it's done; everything is set', and man, he was pretty smug about that. Randall seemed pretty pleased about it, too, and they were talking about it being 'the key to the plan' or something. But they weren't talking to me just yet, so I just kept my mouth shut. But then Randall got sent out of the room, and Black did start talking to me. That's when he told me all about his bank job, and his plans for me in it. I told him he was crazy."

"Ah, well, that might not've been the smart thing to do," Harper interjected, "all things considered."

"He didn't really think so, either," McCormick agreed. "But he did have plans for me, so he settled for a fist to the gut, though I'm pretty sure the gun upside of the head would've been his preference. But I told him you can't very well force someone into robbing a bank; I mean, what's he gonna do? Kill me? Then I can't rob his bank anyway."

"A good point. But taunting the men with the guns should usually be avoided."

Mark nodded solemnly. "True enough. So, that's when he said something about how Hardcastle would disagree with my decision. And, okay, I know what you're gonna say, really not very bright, but I think I might've literally laughed at him. Told him he really didn't know Hardcase as well as he thought if he really believed he'd want his pet ex-con ripping off a bank just to try and stay alive. But that's when he said 'what if it keeps him alive?'.

"You know, I had been kind of talking fast, running my mouth the way I do, just looking for an edge. He stopped me cold with that question. My first thought was that he was bluffing. I mean, I hadn't even been gone two hours yet, and the judge was fine when I left. Not that it hadn't been plenty of time for _me_ to walk into trouble, but it usually takes him at least a little longer."

Harper smiled slightly. The kid really was pretty well adapted to life with Milton C. Hardcastle. What he said was, "So no direct threat up to this point?"

"It came pretty quickly," McCormick responded. "As soon as I asked him what the hell he was talking about, he was pretty clear. He said they had him, and they'd kill him if I didn't go along. I told him flat out I didn't believe him. I mean, seriously, two hours, and for half of that, we'd been in a car driving to La Crescenta. He didn't have time to pull it off. But he just said he knew a lot of people—which is undoubtedly true—and that he and Randall weren't the only ones who knew Hardcastle was alone on the estate that afternoon.

"I dunno. He was so calm about it, like it really didn't matter to him if I believed him or not. And, really, it occurred to me that he might just want an excuse to kill the judge." He let out a sigh. "I couldn't help it; I had to know. So I demanded to talk to him, and that was the beginning of the end."

"But they never really had him."

"I know, Frank, but they were prepared. Black agreed to let me talk to Hardcastle, and he made a phone call. He tells whoever answered to put him on, and then he hands me the phone. It wasn't much of a conversation. All I got out was 'Judge', and then he said 'Whatever they want you to do, McCormick, don't do it. It's just not worth it.' But then the line went dead, like they had taken the phone from him." He shook his head. "It was enough to convince me."

Harper rested his head in his hand, rubbing at his temple. "A recording?" he asked wearily.

McCormick nodded. "But I swear, Frank, it sounded so real." He sighed again. "I told you I was stupid. I deserve whatever they throw at me."

Harper looked up sharply. "No one's blaming you."

"_I'm_ blaming me. 'Don't do anything stupid.' That's what he said. Do you know how many rules he had to bend to let me go on that trip? And then I go walking into this mess. Honestly. I don't know how he trusts me at all sometimes."

"Is that what this is about?" The detective had realized long ago that the kid's ideas could be pretty far out there sometimes, but he certainly hadn't expected anything like this. He rested the pen and looked at the younger man intently. "Look, Mark, I know you're upset about this whole thing, and hell, you've certainly got a right to be, but I need you to wrap your mind around what you are and aren't responsible for, and a couple of guys sticking a gun to your head and forcing you into their scheme doesn't come close to the list of things you need to take on. Milt understands that. And he trusts you now for the same reason he's trusted you all along; you haven't let him down yet.

"On the other hand," Harper continued, "this stunt you're pullin' right now? You _do_ have to take responsibility for that. And while I understand your intentions, I think you're making a mistake. And so does he. But it still isn't about trust." The detective shook his head slightly. "Really, I wish I could tell you it was. Because I think maybe that might be one thing that would make you reconsider."

"So what's stopping you?" Mark asked, the tone suddenly resentful. "You've been laying the guilt on pretty thick so far."

"And I'd do worse, if I thought I could get through that thick skull of yours," Harper shot back at him. "But what I wouldn't do is lie to you; and I sure wouldn't lie to you about that. So if any part of what you're doing is because you think you've already messed things up with him, you need to re-think that, because you couldn't be further from the truth."

McCormick opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He considered the detective for a long moment. What he finally said was, "Sorry. I'm not trying to take things out on you; I'm just a little uptight, I guess."

"Staring down a fifty-year sentence can do that to a guy," Harper said reasonably, "especially an innocent guy. You could still tell me what I want to know." He waited, but when there was no reply, he amended, "Or you could at least finish your story of how it happened."

"Fair enough," McCormick agreed. "Well, like I said, the tape sounded real, so now I was pretty trapped. I wasn't about to do anything to get the judge hurt, so I really did go along. They put me in a suit and gave me a part to play, and we went to the bank for our reconnaissance mission. I told Black up front that what I knew about safes was a pretty hands-on type of learning, and that seeing the thing wasn't likely to do much good, but what he really wanted was information about the security systems that were in place." The young man shrugged. "I am pretty good at that sort of thing—though I'm not entirely comfortable discussing that particular talent with you," he added with a small grin, "and we got the information we needed. In fact, that part went off without a hitch. All we had to do was wait for Friday night.

"And the waiting was kind of strange. We were just sitting around that house, killing time." He gazed over at the detective sincerely. "And I won't lie, Frank; at that point, I really was flat out cooperating. I mean, they didn't have to lock me in a closet or tie me to the bed, or anything. There was no way I was going to try and escape, because I didn't know anything about where the judge was. I would've done just about anything they asked."

"So then Friday night came, and it was time for the heist?" Harper steered him on.

McCormick nodded. "Yeah. And to tell you the truth, that part went pretty smoothly, too. Up until the guard came along. You know, the bank doesn't have their own security; they use the same patrol as the rest of the office building, and he was supposed to be somewhere else entirely right then. We were on our way out, and Randall literally ran right into the guy. He didn't even think twice; just laid into him. Black was content to let Randall go; he'd pulled a gun, but he had it leveled at me. The guard was fighting back, but he was no match. He had finally managed to get to his own gun, but Randall took it from him and bashed him in the head. That's when he went down for the last time. But even then, he just kept kicking the guy, over and over. Finally I decided Black was just gonna have to shoot me, and I went over and tried to pull Randall away. He was in some kind of frenzy or something. I'm tellin' you, the guy is crazy. Anyway, I finally got him away, and once the immediate action had stopped, then Black stepped in and said just to leave the guy, that he was as good as dead, anyway. They were pretty pissed at me by that point; stuck the cuffs on me again, and hauled me out of there and back to the house."

"How'd your prints end up on the gun?"

"What?"

"We found your prints on the guard's gun," Frank clarified.

"Oh, that."

"It's not a minor detail, Mark."

"Of course not. But when I finally decided to make my move against Randall, that really pissed him off. So he was just gonna shoot the guy and be done with it. Up to that point, I'd been sort of trying to tackle him, or shove him away, or whatever, but things were going too far, so I just got in front of him, popped him in the nose, and grabbed the gun away. Then I threw it across the room, though I wish what I'd done was just shoot them both and be done with it."

Harper raised his head sharply, surprised at both the turn of events and the sudden cold bitterness in the tone. "You let them take you again?"

McCormick shrugged. "Still iffy as to whether or not I could've gotten away; there were still two of them. But, Frank, nothing was more important than the judge. If I ran, how was I gonna find him?"

But then Harper focused on the earlier comment. "So you put yourself between a crazy man with a gun and a complete stranger?"

The young man seemed surprised at the question. "Well . . . yeah. I mean, what was I supposed to do? Let him kill the guy? And besides, I figured Black's the boss, right? And he didn't shoot me when I ran across the room to try and pull Randall off the guy, so I figured he probably wouldn't let Randall do it, either. But either way, that guard was laying there, completely helpless, and Randall was still just going at him, and then he's going to shoot him like a dog? Not while I'm there."

Harper smiled, wondering how this kid could ever believe he'd let his mentor down. The need to do the right thing was almost a carbon copy of the irascible jurist. "So they left him, but then Randall took his frustration out on you?"

"Oh, not much. A few punches just to remind me who was in charge; nothing major. Saturday we were waiting around again, but I didn't really understand for what. I really did try to call the hospital, and that really did piss them off even more. Of course, they weren't particularly happy with me, anyway. I just kept asking them what they were keeping me around for. I wanted to talk to the judge. I sure as hell wanted them to let him go. But they just kept saying no to everything. I was really starting to get scared. When they wouldn't make another call, I was so afraid they had done something to him." He shook his head. "Then it would've all been for nothin'. But even though they were being stubborn about everything, I was still getting the feeling they weren't done with me. Black was making some phone calls; I don't know what all he needed to arrange, but I guess he was just taking care of some business.

"Finally, late in the afternoon, they told me the rest of their plan. They were going to leave town, and I was supposed to take the fall for the robbery. They told me they didn't care what kind of story I used, as long as I didn't name names. And . . . as long as I didn't try to deny my own involvement. That's when they first showed me the pictures of the judge, and told me how easy he was to get to, any time they wanted. They had dozens of 'em, Frank. All over town. Hell, even a couple at the courthouse, where you'd think he should be safe. And in every one of them, one of _them_ was in the picture, too. It was a fairly effective way to make a point."

"The pictures we saw only had Randall in them," Harper interrupted.

McCormick nodded. "Yeah. You've got the collage thing, but that's not even half of all the photos they had. And as for it only being Randall, that's because he's the second fall guy." He shrugged. "I don't know if he even knows it, but it seemed pretty clear to me."

Harper was busy taking notes again and motioned Mark to continue.

"Okay, so if they were threatening him still, then I figured that had to mean he was still alive, which was really the only thing I was thinking about at first, but then it all sort of started to sink in what they were asking me to do. I mean, not just go to jail for the rest of my life, but let Hardcastle believe that I was actually guilty. Or guiltier. Whatever. You know what I mean. I should've seen it coming, I guess. He'd told me from the beginning that he didn't really care if I went down for the deal; that's why he didn't let me wear gloves, and why he served me up front and center for the photo ops at the bank. I knew he wanted to cause trouble, but it never occurred to me just how much. Man, he really hates—"

Harper looked up from his notes again. "Hates who?" he asked when Mark was silent for a couple of seconds. "Which one of you?"

"Both of us, I guess," McCormick said non-specifically. "He wants me in prison for the rest of my life, and he wants Hardcastle to think I deserve it."

"So, what? He told you to just waltz up to the police station and turn yourself in?"

"I dunno. I think he probably thought I'd wait for someone to come after me. In fact, he told me I could—" McCormick broke off again.

"Could what?" the detective prodded.

Mark picked at a donut, not looking back at the other man. When he spoke again, he seemed annoyed, though Harper had the impression it was mostly self-directed.

"Dammit, Frank, I'm not supposed to be telling you all this stuff. Aren't you listening? I'm just supposed to take a fall."

"Well, you're doing a pretty good job, really. If you don't give him up, and don't try and build a defense, then he'll never know the difference. But I thought you wanted us to know the truth?"

"Yeah, I guess. For what it's worth." He was still picking at the donut with one hand, the fingers of the other drumming on the table nervously. He looked around the room suddenly. "Hey, is anyone gonna come through that door and shoot me if I stand up?"

Harper glanced at the door himself, surprised, but then processed the question. He himself hadn't laid down any of the standard directives about the prisoner remaining in his seat, but, of course, Mark didn't really need to be told the rules. "No," he assured the ex-con. "You're not a—" he hesitated a split second and then settled for, "a typical prisoner."

McCormick grinned slightly as he pushed back from the table. "Good." He rose from the chair, paced for a few steps, then propped himself against a wall. The grin grew. "Much better. Thanks."

Harper gave his head a single shake, and grinned ruefully across the room. While it hadn't occurred to him to lay down the rules, it also hadn't occurred to him to tell the kid they didn't all apply. "You shoulda said something earlier. Now, you wanna tell me what else it was this Black character said you could do besides show up on my doorstep and start spinning fairy tales?"

"Run," Mark said quietly. "He said I could run, and leave the judge to wonder; make him really believe I'd jumped ship completely. In fact, he said that's what he was hoping I'd do." He shrugged. "But that seemed like the worst choice, for a whole lot of reasons, so here I am." He thought for a moment, then continued the story.

"So that's when it was all starting to get really strange. But I figured this was as good a time as any to ask to talk to Hardcastle again. But that's when they got all arrogant, and started flashing me these smug smiles. I was getting a really bad feeling again. Then Randall left the room for a minute and came back with this big tape player; you know, one of those reel to reel types. He hit play and I heard the judge's message. They actually had a couple of them; I guess just in case they'd had to fake another call. I couldn't believe it. That's when it all sank in for real. I'd just robbed a bank with these guys for no good reason. Making Hardcastle—or anyone else—believe I was guilty wasn't going to be much of a stretch; I _was_ guilty. Black just laughed and said that ought to make it easier on me to do my part, whichever way I decided to go, since no one was ever going to believe my story anyway. And, really, I figured he was right. I never thought . . ." He met the lieutenant's eyes once again.

"I haven't thanked you, Frank. Don't think I don't know that this could be going down a lot different than it is. You know, I came to you because I knew I could trust you not to shoot me on sight, and because I knew you'd talk to the judge. I never once thought you'd believe I was innocent."

"Milt can be very persuasive. And besides, you're kind of a lousy liar."

"I do seem to have lost my touch with that," Mark chuckled. "I'll have to work on it."

"Don't go to any trouble on my account," Frank told him lightly. Then he glanced back down at his notes. "So, I'm guessing sometime after you found out the truth is when they ended up using you as a punching bag?"

McCormick nodded. "Yeah. Black, he's really got some kind of superiority complex, or something. Seriously. He's a big believer in the whole idea of 'the end justifies the means', but he also seems to think that whatever 'end' he's after is absolutely right." He seemed to give that a moment's thought, then added, "That's probably part of why he's not Hardcastle's biggest fan."

Harper thought about it for a moment himself. "Ah . . . because he thinks someone like Milt gets in the way of that kind of thinking?"

But McCormick shook his head. "Because he thinks they're the same, but he thinks the judge gets away with it. He really doesn't know Hardcase at all.

"Anyway," he went on, getting his story back on track, "after he so self-righteously told me how he'd duped me, and how the best part about that was that he got to ruin my life and Hardcastle's all at the same time, he said I had one more night to think about it all, because they were leaving the next day. Then he said he had some things he had to take care of, and he left the house. He still didn't bother to cuff me or anything, just left me there, hanging out with Randall. I guess he'd missed the part about how I was only cooperating because I thought they had the judge. So, then I had to decide; try and overpower Randall or try and sneak out while he was distracted. Hah. After the way he waled on that guard, that took about five seconds. I figured I could disappear into the neighborhood and get lost pretty easily. And even if he came after me, I thought I could probably make a big enough scene to get at least a couple of people to call the cops. I mean, we're talking middle-class suburbia here. They can't be too accustomed to crazy guys with guns chasing people through their streets."

"Doesn't sound like a bad plan," Harper said cautiously. "How'd it go wrong?"

"Because Randall apparently doesn't get distracted. Hell, he wasn't even in the same room; he'd gone into the kitchen to fix himself something to eat. But I didn't get five steps toward the door before he was back. The man literally threw me back across the room." Mark dragged a hand through his hair and offered a slight grin. "So much for my plan, huh? But one on one was still the best odds I was gonna get, so I had to try. I think he was surprised; I'm pretty sure that's the only reason I managed to get in as many licks as I did. But you know the end result; I lost. He told me I was lucky the boss didn't want me dead, and I don't doubt that he could've killed me with his bare hands without breaking a sweat." He touched his torso lightly. "I've still got bruises that hurt. He's crazy and he's thorough, which is a bad combination for the guy on the receiving end. That's when he tied me to the bed, and that's where I stayed until sometime the next day when Black came back. He reminded me about 'consequences' for not sticking to my part, and he left. He left the duffel bag as sort of a care package. It had the money, a set of picks to get out of the cuffs, and the pictures you saw. I hadn't seen the one with the rifle scope before. In a lot of ways, it's the scariest one of them all. Anyway, they were gone; I left the house and came here. You know the rest. That's how it happened."

The detective looked at him curiously. "You've lost me just a little bit. Saturday, you were willing to try and escape, but Sunday you come strolling in here, ready to give up the rest of your life in exchange for this cockamamie tale you're spinning. What gives?"

McCormick shifted uncomfortably. "Ah . . . Saturday was a mistake," he finally admitted. He shuffled back across the room and leaned on the back of his chair, gazing at Harper. "I don't know what I was thinking. I think I was just mad at the whole situation, and hadn't stopped to think everything through. If you want to know the truth, I think I might've just had the crazy idea that if I could just get out and get to Hardcastle, then everything else would take care of itself."

Harper smiled up at him. "Not such a crazy idea really, all things considered. And still a pretty viable alternative, if you want my opinion. What's changed?"

"Oh, come on, Frank," Mark swung the chair around and straddled it, looking dejected as he rested his chin on the back. "What changed is I came to my senses. A long night chained to a bed is a good cure for basic stupidity. Black didn't come back that night. And for a little while, I think Randall might've left, too. Not like there was any risk as far as I was concerned; I wasn't going anywhere. But it gave me a lot of time to think about the idea that they could be doing anything. The judge was home alone, and didn't even know someone might be after him. Sure, he can take care of himself and all that, but he didn't even have any warning. How do you protect yourself against something like that? When you don't even know there's a threat? I think that was the whole idea of that last night, to make me realize how vulnerable he could really be."

"But you said it," Harper objected, "he can take care of himself. And now he knows there's a threat. You tell us where the threat is coming from, and he's that much better prepared. How do I make you understand that you are sacrificing yourself for nothing?"

McCormick raised his head. "How do I make _you_ understand that nothing makes me believe you can get this guy? Or that I'd sacrifice a lot more to make sure that he doesn't go after Hardcastle just because of me?"

Frank released a heavy sigh. "So there's nothing more you want to add?"

McCormick shook his head. "Nope. I've already told you more than I should've, but I do figure you guys know how to keep a secret."

"And what about Randall?" Harper asked suddenly. "Does he keep secrets, too? Or do you suppose he'll give up this Black guy?"

"To tell you the truth, Frank, I'm not sure what all the guy knows. I don't know how long they've known each other, or how they hooked up, or anything like that. Randall's not the brightest bulb in the box, I can tell you that, but I'm pretty sure he knows Black isn't the boss' real name. But, it seems to me that a guy in his line of work doesn't get very far by spilling his guts about everything he knows, so who knows what he might do?"

"If he gives us a name, will you confirm it?"

"You think he'd lie? And still manage to come up with a name you'd believe?" McCormick was obviously skeptical.

"You said yourself there's no telling what he might do. And I don't know enough about him to know what kind of information he has. Hell, as much as they seemed to know about you and Milt, it doesn't seem impossible to believe he could come up with a convincing cover story."

"I suppose you could be right about that," McCormick conceded, though he didn't sound particularly convinced. "But, yeah, sure. If it'll make you feel better, you can come to me for verification if he happens to cough up a name."

Harper laughed as he rose to his feet. "How is it that you're the one who doesn't get to leave this room without an escort, and yet I still feel like you're doing me a favor?"

"It's a gift," McCormick answered, grinning up at him. Then he rose slowly himself. "I guess this means it's time to go?"

Glancing at his watch, Frank replied, "It is almost time for the breakfast delivery." He watched his young friend's face settling into an inscrutable mask. Personally, Harper didn't see much difference between one locked room and another, but Mark clearly felt otherwise. He thought for a moment, and wondered briefly if anyone could possibly find anything improper in confining a prisoner in an interrogation room rather than a cell. Then he decided it didn't really matter much what anyone else thought. "You wanna stay in here instead, just for a while?"

The change was immediate as the mask fell away and the grin returned full force. "That would be great."

"You do know you're the only guy in the world who gets excited about being locked in an interrogation room, right?"

The grin didn't fade as Mark just waved a dismissive hand and plopped back into his chair. "There's donuts, and there's—" He dipped an experimental fingertip into his cup. "And there's lukewarm coffee," he concluded. "Those other guys don't know what they're missing."

Harper was laughing again. "I'll be back later," he said, moving to open the door. "And you know Milt's gonna want to talk to you about some of this stuff," he added, holding up his notebook.

McCormick nodded as he selected another donut. "I'll be here."

00000

About the time Lieutenant Harper had decided he never again wanted to sign his name on another piece of paper, there was a rap on his office door. "Come in!" he called without looking up.

"Morning, Frank." Hardcastle slouched into a chair.

Harper smiled sympathetically as he spared a quick glance at the older man and then finished up his forms. "Yes, it is. But maybe you should've put yours off just a bit longer."

"Wouldn't've mattered," the judge grumbled. "Been down in the basement all night anyway, trying to figure out who could've orchestrated something like this."

"And here I was trying to wait for a respectable hour to call you; should've known better."

Hardcastle perked up. "What've you got?"

"You first," Harper stalled. "Find anything worthwhile in the files?"

But Hardcastle shook his head forlornly. "Sometimes it feels like the kid's been underfoot forever, but it really hasn't been that long. I've got an awful lot of files down there, but most of them don't have anything to do with him. And we've already been over the most likely candidates." He hitched up an inquiring eyebrow. "Unless you've got something new?"

"One sure thing and one hunch," Frank told him. "The sure thing is Randall; we got him. Picked him up in Florida this morning; he should be back here before the day is over."

With a grim smile, Hardcastle said, "One down, one to go. Does McCormick know?"

"I told him this morning."

"Then it's time for him to give us that second name, before his window of opportunity closes completely."

"I told him that, too." The detective shrugged. "I didn't get very far, though. You might want to give it another shot yourself later. But he did at least tell me about the weekend; told me how he managed to get dragged into the whole thing."

The judge seemed impressed. "That's at least a start. Learn anything useful?"

"Mostly what you would expect," Harper began. "They grabbed him right away Thursday, then used some well placed information, a recording, and his own fear to convince him that they had you stashed away. He would've done just about anything for them at that point.

"Oh, and I think we need to sweep your house, by the way. They seemed to know a lot, and they got their recordings from somewhere. They must've had you guys bugged for a while."

Hardcastle was rubbing a hand across his eyes. "'A while'," he repeated. "You know, everything about this case indicates they've been planning things for 'a while', which really ought to narrow the field a bit in terms of suspects. It's not gonna be someone we ran across last week."

"No," Harper agreed, "it isn't. But let's think for a minute about who it might be, or at least the type of person it might be."

"This about your hunch?"

"Yeah. The thing is, Mark's digging in his heels because he's convinced it's the only way to protect you. He thinks we can't get this guy, even if we know who it is."

"Well that's crazy," the jurist objected.

"Maybe, but that's what he thinks. So we need to be focusing on someone that seems above the law in some way, somehow untouchable."

"No one's above the law, Frank, and I'd think if the kid had learned anything in the past six months, that would've been lesson number one."

But Harper shook his head. "You might think that, but does Mark? Does he really?"

Hardcastle sighed an admission. "He doesn't have as much faith in the system as he probably ought to."

Frank pulled a hand across his mouth to cover a small smile. From what he knew about McCormick's history, he thought the kid was doing pretty well in the faith department. But that wasn't the sort of thing he wanted to debate with Hardcastle. "So who's at the bottom of his list?"

"Oh, I dunno." The judge seemed to be giving it some thought. "I guess people in some kind of authority who abuse it for their own good and get away with it. That tends to get on his last nerve."

"Okay," Harper nodded, "then when you go home, I want you to go back over your files and look at the people who fit that description. If we know his bias, it might help us figure out who he's afraid to name."

"I can do that," Hardcastle agreed, "but I wasn't planning on going home right away." He took a breath. "You're going to interview that guard today, right?"

"No."

"No? I thought the hospital cleared him for visitors?"

"They did. I meant, no, you can't go."

Hardcastle leaned forward toward the lieutenant. "Why not?" he asked indignantly.

"You mean other than the fact that I'm trying to conduct an official investigation and you don't have much official standing?"

"The kid made me part of his defense team, ya know."

"Which doesn't give you the right to participate in witness interrogations," Harper pointed out.

"I'm going to get access to his statements through discovery," Hardcastle made his own point, "and as a material witness to the crime, he's going to have to be made available to me for questioning, anyway."

"But not now," the detective said, though he could feel his resolve slipping under the force of the Hardcastle logic.

"What's it matter now or later, in the greater interest of justice? Besides, what if I promise not to talk?"

"Then what's the point?"

Hardcastle's gaze was locked on his friend for a long moment, but then he exhaled loudly and slumped back into the chair. "Because I need to be doing something."

And the depression was so genuine, Harper knew then that he'd have a partner when hospital visiting hours finally rolled around.

00000

"Hey, kiddo."

McCormick looked up as the door opened, smiling reflexively at the greeting. He reflected quickly that it was always good to see Hardcastle, though he wasn't sure when that had that become true. He decided it didn't matter. "Hey, Judge."

Hardcastle crossed the small room. "Are you doing okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Mark answered. He searched the tired eyes of his friend. "But what about you? You've looked better."

"I've _been_ better," Hardcastle admitted dejectedly. "And I'll _be_ better when we get you out of here. You want to tell me yet who we should be looking for?"

McCormick was still examining him closely. After a moment, he laughed lightly. "Nice try, Hardcase."

The judge grinned and offered a small shrug. "Can't blame a guy for trying."

"No, though I was sort of serious. Are you okay?"

Hardcastle waved away the concern. "I'm not the one stuck in the pokey.

"Anyway, I just wanted to come check on you. Frank and I are going to the hospital in a couple of minutes, talk to that guard. That oughta loosen a few nails from your coffin."

"Yeah, I guess it'll help. I appreciate it. But, Judge, I don't want you gettin' your hopes up. I told you where I stand on this thing."

"Yep." Hardcastle turned back toward the door. "I know what you said. But don't forget who's in charge around here, kid."

00000

Harper was repeating his instructions. "I mean it, Milt; you can listen, you don't talk."

"I got it," Hardcastle huffed. "I'm just an observer. Though you act like you think this guy isn't gonna back McCormick's story."

"Nope. I'm acting like a guy who thinks the prosecutor isn't going to be too happy when they find out the defense attorney came along for the ride on the initial interview, not to mention how the feds are going to feel about it. Since what I really think is that this guy can probably help Mark out, I'd like to make sure we don't do anything to make the evidence questionable."

"They're not going to be able to keep his testimony under wraps, no matter how much they might want to," Hardcastle assured him. "If this guy has something useful to say, we're gonna find a way to use it."

"I'm sure you're right. But still . . ."

"Yeah, yeah, no talking," Hardcastle concluded. "I'll be good."

Harper grinned as he knocked briefly on the door, then led the way inside. "Nicholas Siggelko?"

The man in the bed turned his head slowly to face the voice. Harper figured the visible bandages impeded movement, but the sheer number of them had to mean the guy was in a lot of pain. He offered his best professional smile as he produced his badge.

"I'm Lieutenant Frank Harper, with the LAPD. I'm investigating the robbery at First National." He gestured behind him nonchalantly. "This is Milt Hardcastle; he's one of the attorneys on the case." He pulled out a notebook, assuming the answer to his next question. "Do you feel up to answering a few questions?"

"Sure, anything I can do to help. Did you catch those guys yet?"

"We have a couple of suspects in custody," Harper answered. "Can you tell me first how many there were?"

"Three," Siggelko said definitively. "And I got a pretty good look at all of them."

"That's good. We've got some photos we'll show you in a minute. But tell me a little bit about how you ended up here. They overpowered you? Ganged up on you? What happened?"

The patient shook his head once. "Bad as I hate to admit it, it didn't take all of them to do this, just one. I was just making my rounds and coming down the hall in the bank; I went around a corner and bumped right into the guy. I was so surprised, I think I might've frozen for just a second or two, and that's about all it took for this guy to get a jump on me. You know, they give us some training; self-defense and all, but no one ever expects to need it. But I'm not sure there's anything they could've done to prepare me for that guy. He came after me with a vengeance like I've never seen." Siggelko shifted slightly, looking uncomfortable. "I know that probably sounds like I'm trying to make excuses for why I ended up in this condition—"

"No," Harper assured him, "not at all. So one guy pretty much did all of this?" He gestured vaguely to the bandages.

"Not pretty much, _entirely_. The other two never touched me. In fact, one of them . . ."

Siggelko didn't continue right away, and Frank could see Hardcastle becoming impatient almost immediately. He prompted his witness before the judge could forget his vows of silence. "One of them what?"

"One of them probably saved my life," the man answered after a moment. "He finally pulled the other guy off of me, before I blacked out. I'd like to be able to thank him for that someday."

Harper didn't allow his relief to show as he jotted his notes. Instead he simply raised an eyebrow. "He was robbing your bank."

"Yeah . . ." Siggelko seemed to be growing more uncomfortable by the minute. "You know, Lieutenant, there was one thing that was kind of strange. I mentioned it to my chief earlier, but he said I was probably imagining things, not to make too big a deal out of it."

"Mr. Siggelko, any information you have, no matter how insignificant it may seem, could be very helpful to us. I'd encourage you to tell us everything you know."

"Oh, yeah, of course. It's just that this isn't exactly something I _know_; it's more like just an idea."

"I'll take that, too," Harper told him encouragingly. He could see Hardcastle's increased fidgeting, and hoped Siggelko would just spit out whatever it was before his friend could blow a gasket. "Every little bit helps. What is it you think you _might_ know?"

"The one guy, the one who tried to help me? I know this is gonna sound crazy, but I sort of had the impression he didn't want to be involved in what was going on. I mean, it all happened so fast, so my chief is probably right; I probably _am_ imagining things. But I'm sure that I saw the third guy with a gun, and he wasn't pointing it at _me_; he was pointing it at the guy _with_ him, the one who helped me. Looked like they were having some kind of argument. I couldn't tell too much about what was going on, of course, since I was in the middle of getting the crap beat out of me, but it just doesn't seem like a guy pulls a gun on the guy he's working with if everything's completely copacetic between them." Siggelko gave the best approximation of a shrug he could manage from his position. "At least, that's the way I see it."

"You could be right about that," Harper replied casually. He glanced quickly at the judge and could see the satisfied smile creeping across the older face. Neither of them had expected quite so complimentary a report from the guard. "And if that was your observation," he continued, "you shouldn't let anyone talk you out of saying so, no matter how 'crazy' they think it sounds. The important thing is that the truth come out; don't forget that, okay?"

When Siggelko nodded, Harper smiled reassuringly, then pulled a small envelope from his pocket. "Okay. Now I've got some pictures to show you. All I want you to do is tell me if you recognize any of the people, and, if so, where you recognize them from, okay?" He laid out a dozen photos on the small table, then slid it over the bed. "Take your time," he said.

But it didn't take long at all. Siggelko spent about forty-five seconds scanning the various faces, then pointed confidently at Randall's photo. "That's the guy that put me in here." Then he picked up McCormick's picture and waved it slightly. "And this guy, seriously, I need to buy him a drink or something." He looked back at the remaining photos. "But the third guy isn't here."

"Okay," Frank said, gathering up the pictures, "thanks." He took McCormick's photo from the patient. "Just one other question about this guy, though," he said as he added it to the stack. "Is it possible that you're so grateful to him for helping you out that you'd like to downplay his true involvement in the robbery? Maybe you figure this is a way you can pay him back for what he did for you?"

"What? No! I mean, yeah, of course I'm grateful, who wouldn't be? I'd probably be dead right now if not for him. But that doesn't mean I'd lie for him. In fact, the bank probably isn't going to be too happy with me for saying anything good about him at all; I wouldn't risk my job to say something that wasn't true."

"They can't fire you for providing truthful testimony about this crime," Hardcastle piped up. Harper shot him a stern glare. "Well, they can't," the judge added petulantly, but that was the last thing he said.

The detective turned his attention back to Siggelko. "He's right about that, you know. Your employers aren't allowed to intimidate you into changing your testimony about this, even if what you have to say isn't particularly what they want to hear. I told you; the important thing is that we find out the truth. So is there anything else you want to add? Or anything you need to change?"

But Siggelko shook his head resolutely. "What I said is the truth, and I stand by it."

Harper smiled again. "Okay, good. Then we're gonna get out of here and let you get some rest. I'll leave you my card," he placed one on the table, "in case you think of anything else, or should have any questions yourself. We'll be back in touch soon."

00000

"What the hell were you trying to change his mind for?" Hardcastle demanded.

They were alone in the elevator, and Harper was surprised it had taken the jurist this long to start venting. "You know better than that," he answered calmly.

"Well that's sure what it looked like to me." Hardcastle didn't seem to want to be appeased.

Frank propped himself against the wall and fixed the older man with a stare. "You tellin' me it didn't cross _your_ mind? The way he was going on about Mark like he was some kinda saint or something? _Somebody's_ gonna ask the question; better it come from me so I can figure out the truth for myself before the guy gets blindsided with it from the prosecutor. Or did I misread the situation?"

Hardcastle huffed out a short breath. "Haven't known you to misread all that many situations," he admitted grudgingly. "But I still thought the guy was on the level."

"Oh, yeah," Harper said with a small smile, "me, too. Best thing I've heard in a few days. And it helps that the bit about Black pulling the gun on Mark matches up with his story. But maybe when you go back and talk to Siggelko in your more official capacity you wanna tell him to tone down some of that gratitude a bit before he loses all his credibility on the other thing."

The judge grinned as the door slid open and they strode down the hallway. "Maybe the kid should've hired you instead of me."

00000

As Harper walked quickly toward his office, he thought maybe things were finally starting to come together. One robber in custody—_one_ _real__ robber_, his mind qualified—, Mark had come around enough to provide a story that at least gave him a working theory that he'd sent Hardcastle home to research, and the now recovering guard could not only clear McCormick of the assault, but even be part of a case for duress. Yep, things were definitely coming together.

And that's what he thought right up until he found the stack of messages waiting on his desk.

He scanned through the notes, then grabbed the phone and dialed quickly, though not to the return number listed on the half-dozen messages. His own message was to the point. "Grab the most likely files and bring 'em back here. The feds wanna take him."

Then he hurried back out of his office, giving only one directive to the men in his squad. "You haven't seen me yet."

00000

He was preoccupied as he strode quickly through the corridors, but Harper found that he had time to notice the dullness in the detention area, and the way it seemed just a little bit darker as he moved back toward the isolation cells. He found himself understanding Mark's desire to want even that tiny amount of perceived improvement; like it was an inch closer to actual freedom.

Mostly, though, what he found himself thinking was that Mark McCormick shouldn't have to spend the rest of his life in a place like this. And even in the short term, even if it was all temporary, he knew instinctively it was only going to get worse for the kid if Walsh and company transferred him out of here. So far, he thought McCormick was holding up remarkably well, even if he _was_ pretty sure the young man hadn't slept more than a few hours in the entire time he'd been here. But McCormick hadn't yet been forced to spend entire days in his cell, with the hours unbroken except for scheduled meal times. And Harper knew from past experience that once that happened, Mark would begin to slip into a depression that he wouldn't likely come out of, if the feds had their way. The cop in him was beginning to get pissed that he couldn't find a way to keep an innocent man out of jail. By the time the officer on duty opened McCormick's cell, the friend in him had determined to do something about it.

He hadn't expected to find McCormick asleep, but he didn't like the bleary-eyed wakefulness. But he watched Mark rub quickly at his eyes and put on his best alert face; the kid even managed a smile of greeting.

"Hey, Frank. How'd it go with that guard?"

"It went well," Harper answered, "though I'm not sure why it matters to you."

McCormick was in his standard position, sitting on the cot, leaned casually against the wall, but the detective's tone seemed to get his full attention immediately. He pushed himself up off the cot and stood facing Harper, but he didn't move to close the distance between them. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked indignantly.

"It means 'why do you care?'" Harper said harshly. "The guy backed your story. Really, it was even better than that. He saw your boss pull a gun on you; says he got the impression you didn't really want to be involved in the happenings. Couldn't ask for a better witness when you're building a case for duress.

"The problem, Mark, is that you're _not_ building a case. Milt and I are banging our heads up against a wall trying to figure out how to get you out of a mess you seem content to stay in, so it was a legitimate question. Why does it matter to you what the guy had to say?"

McCormick had stiffened as he listened to the detective, but he offered only one brief, surly response. "Black isn't my boss. Don't call him that."

"Really? Because you sure do seem to be dancing to his tune. I'm beginning to wonder if Walsh wasn't close to the truth. Maybe you _do_ have a big chunk of change waiting for you if you just clam up about this guy and do some time. But you couldn't have been planning on fifty years. So, what? You point us toward Randall, and maybe now you'll start trying to whittle away at some of those years by pointing out how you're the one who told us where to look? Maybe that's why it matters what the guard had to say, because that helps you shave off another few years. Is that the game you're playing, Mark? Because if this is all about the money, at least that would be something I could understand and I could quit wasting my time.

"And if Black isn't your boss, who is he? What's he to you? I know he came from one of the cases you worked with Milt. Did you find a shared resentment for 'the system'? Both of you feel persecuted by Hardcastle, and you decided this would be a good way to get even? Partnerships have been formed on less. Just tell me the truth and let me be done with it."

Mark stood silently, face red, jaws clenching, staring in surprised disbelief at Harper. "What the hell are you talking about?" he finally spat out.

"I'm talking about _you_, and why it is that you can't seem to be bothered to defend yourself from a fifty-year prison sentence for something you claim not to have been responsible for. The more I think about it, the less I buy into the 'protect Hardcastle' thing. He's been looking after himself a long time; you've been riding shotgun for less than a year. The odds are in his favor. Give me a reason that makes sense."

McCormick was still staring, apparently seriously debating his response. After a long moment, he seemed to reach a decision. "What happened?" he asked, no trace of the anger that had been in his tone just moments earlier.

"_What happened_?" Harper countered, holding on to his own anger. "You mean other than the fact that you committed an armed federal offense in my jurisdiction? Right under Milt's nose? Isn't that enough?"

But McCormick shook his head. "Uh-uh. You can't con a con, Frank."

Harper held his glare for another few seconds, then decided the kid was probably right. "Dammit," he muttered.

Mark grinned slightly. "If it makes you feel any better, it almost worked." Then he sobered entirely. "But you really should tell me what the hell's bugging you. What's changed?"

"You're runnin' out of time, Mark," Harper said glumly. "Walsh is coming after you."

"He found out about Randall?"

Frank shrugged. "Maybe. Or maybe he just got pissed off on general principle and tired of waiting; I don't know. All I know is that there's a pile of messages on my desk telling me I need to make you available for immediate transfer to federal custody. And if they don't know about Randall, they will, and then the same thing's gonna happen with him." He shook his head, suddenly not liking the way this thing was coming together at all. "Once they've got you both, they're gonna start playing you against each other, see who breaks first, and I gotta tell you; my money's on this Randall guy trying to cut a deal."

McCormick dragged a hand through his hair. "They can't make it worse than fifty years, can they? I mean, no matter what Randall says?"

"Hell, _I_ don't know. You'd have to ask Milt about that. But isn't fifty years enough? Come on, Mark; give us what we need."

The young man dropped back down onto the cot, dejected. "You don't know what you're asking me to do," he said quietly.

Harper hunched down in front of him to meet his eyes. "I'm asking you to trust me," he answered. "To trust Milt. We can make this work."

For a minute, the detective thought it might have finally worked. But then the young face hardened slightly, and determination moved in over the fear that never seemed to leave his eyes when he was in this place. "My freedom or his life," McCormick said, "that's really not a hard choice."

"Dammit, Mark," Harper began, as he pushed himself back to his feet, "you're not making this easy. You should know that we're going to figure it out eventually, anyway, with or without you. That's what we do around here, you know. It's my job."

"It's not Hardcastle's job," McCormick objected, "and he shouldn't have to put his life on the line for it. You guys need to leave this alone."

"You really think he's going to do that? And what about me? I know you've got your doubts about cops in general, but do you really think I'm okay with the idea of letting an innocent guy go away for the rest of his life? How is it you think we can leave this alone?"

McCormick glanced up at the detective. "I'm sorry," was all he said.

Harper heaved a sigh. "Then I guess I'm gonna have to figure another way to keep you here. I don't suppose you have any bright ideas?"

"You oughta just let them take me, Frank. Maybe then he'd let it go. Maybe you both could."

"Wouldn't work that way," Frank assured him. "It would just be more difficult for everyone concerned. And _you_," he added pointedly, "don't look like you need anything to get any more difficult than it already is."

"I'm all right." McCormick gave a small smile, but it was a pale imitation of its normal self, and Harper wondered if the man even recognized the lie of his words.

"You're hanging on;" Harper corrected, "you're not all right. I wish you'd let the doc—" He broke off suddenly, thinking through the idea that had popped into his head. Upon clearer reflection, he decided it could work. It would be fairly transparent, and probably anger Walsh even further, but part of him thought those items might land on the plus side of things. "I need you to do me a favor," he said to his prisoner.

McCormick arched an eyebrow. "Does it involve naming names?"

"Nope."

"But I won't like it?"

"Nope."

"Will it get you off my back about the other thing?"

"Nope. But it'll make my life easier for a little while longer until you come to your senses." Harper played his trump card. "And it's what Milt would want."

Apparently that was enough. McCormick sighed slightly and gave a single nod. "Okay."

Harper grinned. "Come with me."

00000

It had taken some fast talking once McCormick had realized where they were heading, but the ex-con had ultimately decided that an infirmary wasn't much worse than a county isolation cell, and either one of them were infinitely better than being locked up in a federal holding facility.

Then a little more talking had convinced the duty doctor that it really was in the best interests of this particular prisoner to be admitted to the medical ward where he could finally get some real rest, even if it had to be chemically induced. And the fact that this particular doctor also happened to be a poker buddy from way back made it possible to put the patient in an isolation area here, too, with an assurance that there would be no visitors without Harper's direct authorization. The detective figured those precautions should protect McCormick from all manner of threats, whether the kid particularly liked it or not.

Walsh hadn't been at his desk when Harper returned his call, so the lieutenant had left a message of his own; very proper, and full of regret that they were having such difficulty connecting, and—more important—that it would be a while before the prisoner could be transferred, but medical concerns had to come before mere jurisdictional matters. Oh, and he would soon be forwarding the witness report which should remove all suspicion from McCormick regarding the assault on the guard; and please don't hesitate to call with any further questions, as inter-agency cooperation was always a good thing for all parties involved. Then he smiled, and sat back to tackle some more reports.

00000

"Where is he?" Hardcastle asked as he hurried into the office.

"He's fine," Harper began, but he didn't get any further.

"I already went to his cell and to interrogation; he's nowhere. Did they transfer him already? They really should at least notify his attorney of any move like that. They—"

"Milt!" Frank broke in, "I told you; he's fine. The feds don't have him; he's in the infirmary." He held a palm toward the judge before more questions could be fired. "I stashed him there. They won't want to transfer someone while they're under medical care; it's too much trouble. And if the doc recommends against it—which he will—then there needs to be a pretty compelling reason for them to even think about it. They don't have anything like that."

Hardcastle shook his head. "Walsh is gonna see right through that."

"Sure he will. But he won't fight it; there's no real reason. Of course, it does put us on something more of a deadline, since it's not likely to be too pleasant for Mark once the transfer actually does take place. Doc says he can probably give us three days. Says exhaustion's a tricky thing; gets a lot of things out of whack, makes you not very coherent. Apparently plays hell with interrogations." He grinned.

The judge grinned back. "That's what he says, huh? Poor kid. Didn't know he had it so bad."

"I almost missed all the signs myself," Harper said, nodding sagely. "Thank God we caught it in time."

00000

McCormick punched at the pillows again, hoping he might eventually find a comfortable position, though experience told him it was probably a losing battle. He situated himself in the bed, then leaned back to consider his situation. What he decided most of all was that he was just about over being manipulated, even if this most recent bout did seem to be in his own best interest.

But he'd spent the weekend being the pawn of the bad guys, and then the last three days had seen Harper working on his good cop/bad cop routine, though the man didn't seem to have quite decided which part he wanted to play. Hell, even Hardcase had resorted to emotional blackmail a time or two. He thought maybe the only upside was that this time, he got to be in on the game, too. He thought screwing around with that Agent Walsh might make up for a lot. Well, that, and actually keeping himself in mostly friendly hands. He supposed that was a definite upside, too. But still, there was no doubt that this game playing was wearing on his last nerve. Though, he supposed, in fairness, he would have to admit that he was mostly responsible.

Not that all this thinking about it was helping him out much. Truth was, he wanted a solution; he wanted out. He would, in fact, give just about anything to make that happen. He sighed as he settled back into his pillow. Anything except the one thing he actually had to barter.

He was still lying there thinking—though no closer to a solution—an indeterminate amount of time later when he heard footsteps approaching his bed and then Hardcastle poked his head around the curtain that separated him from everything else.

"Hey, kiddo."

And he still couldn't help but smile. "Hey, Judge."

"How ya doin'?"

"You alone?"

"Yeah," the judge answered curiously.

"Then I'm fine." Mark grinned at him. "But for other visitors, apparently I'm supposed to be . . . wait, let me make sure I have this right . . . unfocused, a little on edge, maybe sullen or depressed, having difficulty keeping everything straight—"

"How's anybody supposed to know the difference?" Hardcastle interrupted, as he dragged up a chair and sat beside the bed.

"Hah. Truth is, I said almost the same thing when I told them I didn't need any of their damned drugs to help me sleep. Told 'em a guy had to get used to sleep deprivation hanging around you." He winced slightly when he saw the shadow of emotion flicker across the older face.

"Not to worry, Hardcase," McCormick went on quickly, "I really am okay. Hell, Frank wanted the doc to stick some tubes in me, just to make it look more convincing, but they wouldn't do it. Said I wasn't that bad off. So, see? I'm okay. _Really_."

Hardcastle seemed to relax a little at that, even managed a small grin. "He was gonna poke you up like a pin cushion all in the name of method acting, eh?"

"Said he thought maybe an IV would buy us an extra day or so."

"Yeah, well, he wouldn't have to be worrying about stuff like that if you'd just tell us what we want to know."

McCormick shook his head slightly, marveling at the sudden change in conversation. "So now it's your turn again, huh? You guys are making this into a regular art form."

"It's time for you to quit foolin' around," the older man said firmly.

"Nobody's foolin', Judge. I know what I'm doing."

"The hell you do. I'm pretty sure that no one who knows what they're doing gets forced into robbing a bank against their will, then confesses to the crime anyway, then withholds the crucial piece of information that would save them from a fifty-year conviction. Which part of that is you knowing what you're doing?"

McCormick gritted his teeth. He hated it when the judge got sarcastic. He tried his own brand of logic. "Let me ask you this; I give you a name, what's to guarantee I get out of here, anyway? I mean, even if you can arrest the guy, which I've got my doubts about. And even if you don't end up dead in the process. What makes you so sure that's my ticket to freedom?"

"Because . . ." Hardcastle seemed to be giving that some thought.

After a long few seconds, McCormick smiled, almost gently. "Well, I appreciate you not trying to lie to me, Judge. But I know why you think it's my ticket out. Because it's the truth. And you think the truth and justice always go hand in hand. But I know better. And I know that even if you put this guy away, he's not going to exonerate me. So I risk your donkey neck and still end up right here anyway, spending the next fifty years of my life behind bars. Now _that_ would be someone who didn't know what they were doing."

"How about because it's the right thing to do?"

But Mark shook his head. "Putting this guy away has been the right thing to do for a while now, but you guys haven't done it yet. If it doesn't matter to you, it sure as hell doesn't matter to me."

Hardcastle looked at his friend closely. "You should know that Frank and I almost have it figured out. I left some files up in his office; we've got it pretty well narrowed down."

"Yeah?" McCormick wondered how true that was. "Then you don't need me anyway."

"Save us some time, is all," Hardcastle answered with a small shrug.

Mark thought again about manipulation, though he thought this was a pretty mild form. He gave an answering shrug. "I'm not in that much of a hurry."

"Okay." The judge rose slowly from his seat. "Get some rest, okay?"

McCormick nodded. He watched as Hardcastle took a couple of steps away from the bed, then turned back.

"We really do have a theory," the older man said. "Someone in some sort of position of authority. Me, I figure it's someone within the legal system—cop, lawyer, judge. Someone like that. Maybe some sort of politician, though that seems a little far removed to me."

Mark willed his face to remain impassive, though he thought it might've already been too late. For the first time in the last six months he honestly wished he had learned to lie to this man. "If this is a fishing expedition, Judge, I'm not biting."

Hardcastle studied the younger man for another moment, then nodded and repeated his instructions. "Get some rest." Then he was gone, and McCormick thought it was possible he'd given up more in the past few minutes than he'd given up in the entire past week.

"Dammit." He punched at the pillows again, though he now had no hope that he was going to be able to get comfortable at all.

00000

"Not what he said," Hardcastle was saying to Harper, as they sat at a small work area in front of a computer "but trust me; we're on the right track. It's in here somewhere." He waved at the small stack of file folders, then pulled a few away from the group. "But I really do think we can take Parnell and his boys out of consideration. We dealt with them less than two weeks ago; this job was way too complicated for them to have put it together so quickly."

Frank nodded. "I agree. Too much detail; too much planning. So who's this?" He pulled a file toward him. "Thomas Quinlan?"

"Not a lot of people that would end up lower on the kid's list than a dirty parole officer who was leaning on a friend," the judge explained. "Though that was a pretty open and shut case; I'm not sure why he'd think Quinlan would end up above the law. It didn't take us long to shut him down."

Harper was flipping through the notes. "But in the meantime, Teddy tries to play the game and Mark takes the fall? You know, I'm not sure you have to dig too deep to figure out why the kid's a little skeptical about the diligence of the legal system."

"Gets himself into his own binds," the older man harrumphed. "In that case, hiding another ex-con—his old cellmate—out in the gatehouse, which was just plain stupid. If he'd come to me to begin with, maybe Teddy would've thought to come to me when Quinlan started leaning on him. Could've avoided a lot of trouble."

""I'm sure he's heard all about those other options a time or two by now," Harper said with a smile, and he started punching buttons on the keyboard in front of him.

"Damn straight," Hardcastle agreed. "Kid needs to learn to keep his nose clean."

The detective glanced to his side. "So I seem to recall hearing before. It's a good thing—" he broke off as the screen changed to display the requested information. "Quinlan's been in custody since you guys busted him four months ago. So who's next?"

The judge grabbed a file. "Joe Cagney. It's a good thing what?"

Harper started tapping on the keys again. "I was just gonna say it's a good thing you're the forgiving type," he said with a chuckle. Then he added, "I'm pretty sure Cagney's been under wraps all along; though I heard they opted for a change of venue and moved everything down to San Diego County."

"Not sure you can get far enough away when the defendant is a dirty cop," Hardcastle muttered. Then he puffed up just a little. "And I _am_ the forgiving type, anyway."

"Well, it might not be your strongest character trait, but you haven't sent the kid packing yet," Frank conceded, "though it seems to me you've questioned his thinking a time or two—kinda loudly. Last month, when he followed you to D.C.; that stunt he pulled setting up the scam with that Tina Grey character; even when he saved your life down in San Rio. Some people might think he should be _thanked_ for some of that stuff, not forgiven, but I guess that's between the two of you.

"Anyway," he went on, scanning the new screen of information, "doesn't look like Cagney's been in any position to put this thing together, either. Really, you guys do pretty good work. Once you nail 'em, they stay nailed. It's gonna get more difficult if we have to start looking for known associates or—heaven forbid—someone trying to avenge someone. Who've you got next?" He cleared the screen, waiting for the next name, but Hardcastle was suddenly strangely silent.

The detective looked over quickly to find Hardcastle staring, a puzzled expression on his face. Harper glanced down at the next folder for the name. "Peter Avery," he read aloud as he began typing. "The CIA guy from Rio, right? Speak of the devil." But Hardcastle still wasn't speaking of anything.

"Hey," Harper said, looking back at the older man, "I was just kidding about that forgiveness thing, you know."

"What did you say?" The judge was distracted, still apparently sorting through something.

"I said I was only kidding—"

"_Before_ that."

"About Peter Avery?"

Hardcastle shook his head roughly. "No, dammit. Something about McCormick. There's something . . ." He rubbed at his temple, muttering to himself, tracing back through the conversation. "Rio . . . Avery . . . breakout . . . D.C. . . . told him to stay put . . . Tina Grey . . . won the basketball game . . . Cagney in San Diego . . . Teddy in the gatehouse . . . that's it!" He looked up suddenly.

"I don't have the right file, Frank." Hardcastle was smiling now, more exuberant than Harper had seen him in days, and the words were coming quickly. "I should've put it together from the beginning. The kid tried to send me a message. Teddy had the key all along, but I didn't recognize it. He told me about the museum; said we had to stop a kidnapping." He slapped his palm to his forehead. "Why didn't I put that together before?"

Harper had swiveled his chair to face his friend directly, waiting out the flow of words, hoping they were ultimately going to make sense. Now that the older man seemed to have reached the end of his explanation, he could see that hope had been in vain. "Milt, what're you talking about?"

"Teddy. When McCormick called him to cancel the trip, he tried to send a message. That was before he knew what they had planned; he must've figured at some point he'd be officially missing, and he knew Teddy was the first person I'd call. So he gave him a clue. At the time, I thought it was all just part of a McCormick scam. Told him the reason he couldn't go to Vegas was because he had to deal with an exterminator about a spider problem, and then we had a case to stop a kidnapping at a museum." Hardcastle looked directly into his friend's eyes and repeated himself. "Stop a kidnapping at a museum, Frank. He had to save a damsel in distress."

Harper put the pieces together. "Tina Grey. The black widow was the spider problem. Jeez. He was expecting you to figure out a lot."

Hardcastle shook his head. "I'm sure he couldn't say much; he did the best he could. If I hadn't been so preoccupied with the idea of the robbery, I probably would've put it together a lot sooner."

"But, I already told you," Frank objected, "she's been under lock and key." But he was already typing the name into the computer, double-checking his information.

"It's not her," Hardcastle said confidently. "She's not the profile we're looking for, Frank."

Harper whirled back to face him. And then the last piece clicked into place. "Filapiano," he breathed.

Hardcastle nodded. "Let's go ask him."

The lieutenant barely managed to grab an arm before Hardcastle was out of the chair. "Hold on, Milt. We need to think this through. How much of a corner do you want to put him into?"

"Can the corner get worse than a fifty-year sentence?" the judge questioned, shaking off the restraining hand.

"Mark obviously thinks so," Harper answered reasonably, "or we wouldn't be here now. So before you ask him a question that's either going to force him to out and out lie to you, or make him realize that he's lost, you should decide what it is you hope to gain."

"I hope to gain the _truth_," Hardcastle answered, exasperated.

"We can do it another way. Let's have him brought in; question him a little. Besides, I might've stuck the kid in a bed mostly to hide him, but it really wouldn't bother me if he actually finally got some rest. That's not gonna happen if we keep going down there harassing him. And it's sure not gonna happen if he gets any more worried about you than he is, which he will, if he thinks we're going after the right guy.

"And besides, we're not the only ones involved here. We can't go stepping on any toes in IAD."

Hardcastle scowled at him. "That's pretty far down my list of concerns."

"That's because you don't have to work here anymore, and even if you did, cooperation is another thing that sometimes comes in pretty far down your list of concerns. Lots of people have been working this case for a lot of months, and we don't want to do anything to mess things up. Besides, I know you're worried about Mark, but I also know you want the man to pay for what he did before."

The jurist scowled a little longer, then gave his head a shake. "Anyone ever tell you you're kinda annoying when you're right?"

Harper just laughed as he scooped up the files. "C'mon, let's head back to my office and make a couple of calls."

00000

During the first phone call, Hardcastle had managed to stay seated, though his foot had tapped enough to cause Harper to give him an evil glare several times over. But the first call hadn't gotten them what they'd wanted, and all Harper had said was 'gimme a minute' before he'd dialed again.

That's when Hardcastle had decided maybe standing would be better; pacing didn't make quite as much noise as foot-tapping, though it still earned him some well- placed glares.

But now Harper was on his third call, and this end of the conversation was sounding less and less positive. At some point, Hardcastle had stationed himself by the side wall of the office and pretended to study the county map filled with push-pins. His hands were jammed in his pockets, mostly to keep them still, and while he was no longer officially pacing, he could admit that he hadn't exactly managed the art of standing still. As soon as he heard the receiver hit the cradle again, he whirled around to face the desk.

"Where is he?" he demanded.

Harper looked back, face full of chagrin. "He's nowhere. The DA finalized everything last week; officially filed the charges yesterday. But when they sent officers to pick him up, he was nowhere to be found. They've checked with family and friends, and likely known associates, but nothing. They issued a statewide APB last night."

"Dammit." Hardcastle forced himself not to pound his fist into the nearby file cabinet. "He should've been in custody all along, instead of treating him with kid gloves like they were. It's no wonder McCormick thinks the guy is untouchable. He gets off scot-free for killin' a kid twenty years ago, and then when he decides to start using department resources to facilitate a little gangland housecleaning, no one can even be bothered to lock him up." He trudged the couple of steps across the clearing and plopped back into his abandoned chair. "It's ridiculous," he concluded.

"We'll find him," Harper offered a reassurance.

"Of course you'll find him," Hardcastle snapped, swiping a thumb across his nose. "It's just a matter of time. Problem is, McCormick might not have that kind of time."

"Might not hurt for you to share some of that confidence with Mark, since my guess is all he's heard for the past few months is how Filapiano is making a mockery of the system and practically getting away with murder."

"He's a grown man;" Hardcastle answered defensively, "he doesn't get all his ideas from me, ya know." But when Harper just raised a speculative eyebrow, he made a more honest admission. "Okay, I mighta complained about it a time or two. But, dammit, he really shoulda been in custody. They were so worried about making a move on a decorated police officer too soon, and how it might look if they got it wrong, or couldn't make it stick. But how's it gonna look now?"

"I don't disagree," Frank said placatingly. "Just seems to me this might be a good time to remind Mark about why sometimes the system has to move slowly, but that doesn't mean it isn't working. He needs to believe that we can catch this guy, and that once we do, we'll actually do something about it."

Hardcastle raised his own eyebrow. "I thought you didn't even want to tell him about it yet?"

"That was before. Now that Filapiano's disappeared, I need Mark to make the complaint official. IAD's gonna want to talk to him."

The older man ran a hand across his head. "He's still not gonna want to do that," he predicted.

"No, but he needs to. We will make it work, one way or the other, but he really needs to understand that this is his last chance to make a deal for himself, because I don't know that I see Filapiano just taking the full blame and getting the kid off the hook."

"That's what he said, too," Hardcastle sighed. "He—" The sudden insistent knock on the door interrupted his thought.

"Now what?" Harper grumbled. He raised his voice. "Come in."

The door flung open and Agent Walsh barreled inside. "Lieutenant Harper," he began coldly, "since you seem to be avoiding my phone calls, I thought I'd visit you in person." He glanced at the visitor chair. "And Hardcastle. Why am I not surprised to see you here?"

"Because I have a client currently being held here and Lieutenant Harper is the officer of record on the case?" the judge suggested politely.

"Agent Walsh," Harper greeted, equally polite. "I'm sorry to hear that you feel I've been avoiding you. I did return your calls. In fact—"

"I got your message," Walsh interrupted, "and I'm here to tell you that this is completely unacceptable. McCormick is going to be transferred into federal custody."

"Of course he is," Harper agreed. "The doctor says he should only need two or three days of bed rest and medication to get everything stabilized again."

"And what about Costa?" Walsh demanded suddenly.

"What about him?"

"When were you planning on telling me he'd been arrested?"

"Once I got him extradited back here," Frank answered.

From the observer's standpoint, Hardcastle thought that sounded perfectly reasonable, and it even stopped Walsh briefly. But then the agent was continuing.

"And that was gonna be when? A week or two from now?"

Harper glanced at his watch. "I had a guy on a plane a couple of hours ago. The Florida boys are bringing him to the airport detention facility; they'll make the transfer there. My guy should be back here with Costa by early evening."

This got a longer pause from Walsh, then he seated himself in the remaining visitor chair. "I've got people out there already; could've saved you the trouble and had him brought here in federal custody."

_I'll bet_, Hardcastle thought, but he had to give the guy credit. It had come out sounding almost cooperative. And then Frank was playing along.

"Well, I appreciate that, Agent. I wish I'd thought of it myself. But they'll be here before the day's over. We won't lose too much time."

Walsh just nodded. Then he said, "We spoke with the bank guard ourselves; he gave us the same story he gave you about McCormick saving his life." He didn't sound particularly pleased.

"Did he tell you the rest?" Harper asked.

"You mean that crap about the third guy holding the gun on him and all?"

"Yeah, that."

Walsh shook his head. "Guy was probably delirious; doesn't know what he saw."

Hardcastle's first thought was that Siggelko must've gotten the point of Harper's earlier questioning, if Walsh's impression was that the guard was delirious rather than lying, and he was grateful for small favors. And then he heard Harper explaining how the guard's story actually matched up precisely with McCormick's own account of the events, but he wasn't entirely focused on the exchange; the beginnings of an idea were tickling at his brain.

"I sort of had the impression McCormick was stonewalling you guys as much as he was us," Walsh was saying. "Now you're telling me he's developed a chatty streak?"

"He's—"

"Finally started acting on the advice of counsel," Hardcastle interjected, stopping whatever explanation Harper was about to offer. "He's cooperating as much as his current condition will allow."

"Which means what?" Walsh challenged.

"Well, he's a little . . ." Hardcastle paused for effect, "oh, unfocused, I guess is the word you would use," he finished. "Takes him a while to make a point; makes the questioning go round in circles a bit."

"Doc says nothing knocking him out for a while and just leaving him be won't fix," Harper chimed in.

"But, as the lieutenant was going to say earlier," Hardcastle continued, "we were going to call you with another report. McCormick did finally tell us about the weekend; about how the robbery took place. And we got the name of the third perpetrator."

If asked, Hardcastle would've been hard pressed to tell which officer was more surprised by his statement, though Harper certainly mastered his expression quicker.

"You're kidding," the agent said flatly.

Hardcastle shook his head.

"So, what?" Walsh asked. "Now you're holding out, looking for a deal? You think you're gonna get your boy out of this?" He turned his attention to Harper. "And what about you? You're a _cop_. You can't withhold this type of information."

"Don't be ridiculous," Hardcastle responded angrily. "Nobody's withholding anything. But I do expect that you're going to withdraw your overbearing threats regarding multiple charges. You've already found out for yourself that you can't make the assault stick. This was bank robbery, nothing more, and it was under duress. In exchange for cooperation, we expect that only reasonable charges will be filed."

Walsh looked at him suspiciously. "That's it?"

"That's all we need from you," the judge confirmed. "I know you're the one pushing the charges, wanting to use them as leverage. Now you can let that drop. I'll take care of the defense."

"You don't really believe he was forced into anything?"

"I do," Hardcastle replied easily, "but that's not your concern. I just want your assurance that you'll request minimum charges."

"Fair enough," Walsh finally conceded. "Now who's the guy?"

"A cop," Hardcastle told him, not sounding too pleased with the admission. "Name's Don Filapiano."

"A cop?" Walsh was incredulous. "Now you guys are just jerking my chain."

"Maybe _ex_-cop would be more accurate," Harper said, picking up the story. "He's been on suspension and under investigation for several months. Apparently the DA filed formal charges yesterday."

"Then why are you sitting on this information? You need to notify them as well as your internal affairs people."

"I told ya, we're not sittin' on anything," Hardcastle huffed at the man.

"We already called them," Harper explained.

"So it's just me you're keeping in the dark."

"It's just you throwing your weight around and trying to railroad my client," the judge snapped. He took a breath. "But even so, we _were_ going to tell you. We really don't have anything to hide. We just want the truth to come out, because that's what's best for McCormick."

"That why you stuck him in the infirmary and blocked my access, because you don't have anything to hide?"

Hardcastle decided maybe Harper had been right; maybe cooperation _was_ pretty far down his list sometimes, though people like Walsh made it pretty easy to remember why. "Look," he began, but Harper cut him off.

"He's in the infirmary, Agent Walsh, because he's physically exhausted. The man was kidnapped, and beaten, and held against his will through emotional and psychological duress. And now he's been locked up here for three days, still not sleeping, because he thinks he has to choose between fifty years in prison for something he was forced to do or risking Hardcastle's life. If you disagree with my decision, you can file a complaint with my captain, or your captain, or anyone you want. Challenge it. You tell them that you know better than the arresting officer who's been handling the interrogations all week; better than the man who's been working with him for six months and knows him inside and out; tell them that you know better than the doctor who examined him and admitted him. You tell them that you know what's best for Mark McCormick.

"But, when you're filing your complaints, and getting him transferred, you be sure to tell them that because you know best, you want to take him from the custody of the people he trusted enough to open up to, away from the people who have the history with him, and away from the people most likely to be able to secure any future cooperation necessary to close this case. I'll be waiting for their decision."

Hardcastle worked to hide the smile. Frank Harper didn't get worked up too often, but it was kind of fun to watch when he did. Walsh, however, didn't seem to find it nearly as entertaining.

"I won't be filing any complaints," he said stiffly, as he rose from his chair, "so you've bought yourself a few more days with your boy. But I will be questioning Costa later this evening; I expect we will transfer him into federal custody immediately."

"Whatever works best for you," Harper replied affably. "We're all working toward the same goal."

This time, Hardcastle couldn't stop the smile, but fortunately, Walsh was already on his way out of the office and the door slammed behind him before he could recognize it.

"I take it back," Hardcastle said, as soon as he was gone.

"What's that?"

"Maybe you're not always annoying when you're right."

"Hah. He probably disagrees with you," he motioned toward the closed door. "But that doesn't matter. You know you just lied to a federal agent."

"I did not," Hardcastle said indignantly.

"You told him Mark gave us Filapiano's name."

"I did _not_," the judge repeated. "What I said was that Mark came clean about the weekend, which he did, and that we got the name of the third perp, which we did. It certainly isn't my fault if he _assumed_ that those two events happened simultaneously. That's just sloppy police work."

"And what if we're wrong?"

"We're not wrong," Hardcastle answered confidently. "Even if McCormick won't tell us the truth just yet, we'll show Filapiano's picture to our witnesses; we'll have a positive ID in a couple of hours."

Harper grinned slightly and shook his head. "Well, I think it's a toss-up as to who's gonna be more pissed—Walsh or Mark—when they find out what you let the guy _assume_. I think I'll let you take the heat for that one alone."

"I've dealt with pissed off people before," Hardcastle said with his own grin, "especially McCormick." And to himself he could admit that he'd do a lot worse—maybe even worse than misleading a federal agent—if it had even a chance of making things better for the young man.

00000

"I'm getting antsy," Hardcastle said, picking aimlessly at the sandwich in front of him.

Harper, feeling a little antsy himself, let his eyes finish tracing over the coffee room crowd before returning to the man seated across the table from him. "Really?" he asked sardonically.

The judge frowned slightly. "I'm not the one who asked you to babysit me. Besides, we should've been the ones to go make the ID on Filapiano."

"As I think we discussed, _you_ shouldn't really be the one to do anything official on this case," Frank pointed out. "And I'm not babysitting; I'm keeping you company."

"Only to make sure I don't run off and do something you don't approve of."

"That, and a chance to share this fine meal in your charming company."

Hardcastle chuckled. "All right, you made your point. But—"

"But nothing," Harper said, talking around a bite of his own sandwich. "I'll tell you, Milt, now that I know who we're dealing with, I can understand Mark's concerns. Based on everything I know about what happened last year, I think the guy would come after you. There's not any love lost, that's for sure. And if he thinks Mark gave him up, I think the motivation might be even greater. Like it or not, I really do think you're stuck with some company for a while, Milt."

"Oh, you can't go gettin' spooked now," the judge complained. "If he wanted to take me out, he would've tried already."

"Not necessarily. If he had a way of knowing—and I think we probably ought to assume that he does—then all he would've heard for the last few days was that Mark was in custody, copping to the bank job. That's exactly what he wanted. But now we've started asking questions; we're looking for him. The DA is looking for him. _He's_ the one gettin' spooked. That makes him dangerous. Let me do my job; give me one less thing to worry about."

"Oh, all right." Hardcastle looked at his watch. "But when are your guys gonna be back? I wanna talk to McCormick."

"Soon," Frank said with a smile. "But eat your dinner first."

00000

"I think I'm kinda nervous," Hardcastle admitted as they walked toward the small, semi-private area that was serving as McCormick's latest isolation cell.

"That's because you know he's gonna be pissed," Harper answered lightly.

"Maybe. He's gonna feel . . . I dunno, betrayed, or something. And he's gonna blame himself even more."

The detective glanced over at his friend. "You're serious."

"He thinks he's doing the right thing."

"He'll know better when it's all over. In the meantime, we just have to make him understand that his life isn't any less important."

"Yeah." The judge was long-suffering. "Sounds easy; if only he wasn't so damn stubborn."

"Who's stubborn?" McCormick called out. "It's not like these are real walls, ya know."

"That doesn't mean you oughta be eavesdropping," Hardcastle grumped, as he pushed the curtain out of the way. "In fact, you oughta be sleeping."

"But then you'd be here to wake me up," Mark pointed out righteously. "And besides, if that was me you were talking about so disrespectfully out there, I told ya; I learned stubborn from you."

Harper grinned as Hardcastle rolled his eyes. "Have you slept at all?"

"Ah, not really, but the doc and I made a deal. I told him I'd take one of his stupid pills tonight. But I didn't want to be doped up today in case anyone wanted to talk to me."

"That was probably good thinking," Harper told him.

McCormick looked between the two men. "I don't think you came here to ask about my sleeping habits. What's going on now?"

Frank cast a sideways glance at the judge, but no answer was immediately coming from that direction, so he began himself. "Some people from IA are probably gonna want to talk to you."

"IA? _Internal_ _affairs_?" He sat up straighter against the propped up pillows. "What the hell for? I'm not a cop."

Hardcastle stepped closer to the bed, and locked his gaze on the younger man. "We know who it was, kiddo," he said evenly.

It took a few seconds, while McCormick seemed to be processing what he'd just heard, then he swallowed hard. "What . . . whattaya mean?"

"I said we know," the jurist repeated. He took a breath. "We know it was Filapiano."

If anyone had asked him, Harper would've said the kid couldn't look any worse than he had the last day or so. But now, as McCormick responded almost as if to a physical blow, he decided he'd have to re-think that assessment. The color drained from the young man's face, and his eyes were staring back into Hardcastle's, though the expression had gone a little frantic.

"No," McCormick began weakly. He tried again. "No, it wa—" But he broke off before he finished the sentence, and Harper was struck again by the idea that the kid would do a lot of things before he'd literally lie to Milton Hardcastle.

The detective stepped into the uncomfortable silence that was settling. "We already got positive IDs, Mark, from both Megan Wesley and the guard."

"It doesn't matter," McCormick said, and Harper had the definite idea the kid was already beginning to marshal his arguments.

"I won't corroborate the ID," Mark continued. "They won't file charges without me. They'd never make it stick."

"What about Randall?" Hardcastle asked, finally rejoining the conversation. "He'll be here in another hour or so. Do you really think he's gonna be such a stand-up guy? He's not gonna be interested in protecting Filapiano; I can promise you that."

"Dammit, Judge." McCormick sat upright in the narrow bed, folding his legs underneath him. "This is not about protecting Filapiano, and you know it." He turned his gaze back to Harper. "Did you pick him up already?"

"We haven't been able to find him," the detective admitted.

"Unbelievable," McCormick said, pulling a hand through his hair. "And this is the guy you want me to believe doesn't present a threat? The one you can put away without a problem? You guys are crazy. He shoulda been in jail months ago; I don't know what makes things slide off him, but I don't intend to piss him off any more than I apparently already have. So you might as well tell the boys from IA to save themselves the trouble of stopping by and just go ahead and send those federal guys back in."

"What did I tell you?" Hardcastle said in a loudly whispered aside to Harper, "Stubborn." He hitched himself up onto the end of the bed, facing his young friend. "Look, kiddo, there's some things you have to understand. Sometimes . . . well, sometimes the system works kinda slow; maybe even works kinda strangely. But that doesn't mean it doesn't work. It just means that sometimes it takes a while for everything to fall into place. Filapiano wasn't gonna get away with what he did before, and he's not gonna get away with what he did now, either.

"You should know that the DA filed formal charges earlier this week; they're ready to put him on trial. It took a while, but the system did what it was supposed to do. He _will_ pay for his crimes."

"Really? You think it will be before or after they have to add your murder to the list of charges?"

"Frank's got me under protective custody, kiddo; we're being careful. Now it's time for you to take care of yourself." He took a breath before he continued what he had to say. "And until you decide to take on some of that responsibility yourself, I've gotten a head start on some of it."

"What does that mean, exactly?" McCormick asked warily.

"It means I already told Walsh you decided to cooperate, and he's agreed to quit pushing the US Attorney for all the extra charges. Even if this doesn't just go away, the defense will be a lot easier to manage this way. You can be as stubborn as you want, but I don't intend to just stand by and let you give up your life without a fight."

"You told him I gave up Filapiano?"

"He might've gotten that impression, yeah."

"Dammit, Hardcastle, you didn't have any right to do that. Don't you think the guy might still have some contacts somewhere? That someone might be feeding him information?"

"It's a possibility," Hardcastle acknowledged. "Especially given the timing of this bank job and the indictment for the other stuff. But you still don't get it, do ya? I'm not worried. He's gonna get what's coming to him."

"That's sure not the song you've been singing the past few months," McCormick said peevishly.

Harper couldn't quite stifle the 'I told you so' snicker, but Hardcastle just threw him a quick glare, and then continued speaking to McCormick. "No," he said, "it isn't. But that's just because I was frustrated and impatient myself, not because I didn't expect things to work out."

"And what if I don't share your faith?" Mark asked with a sigh.

"It wouldn't be the first time," the judge pointed out, "but you can't deny that I'm usually right."

The young man shook his head. "But there's something _you_ don't understand, Hardcase. The man hates you. I mean _really_ hates you. Now, granted, he's not overly fond of me, either, but that seems to be mostly a 'guilt by association' type of deal. You didn't see him, gloating the way he was . . . You just don't understand. He'll kill you, Judge, without batting an eye. _You_ be as stubborn as you want, but that's the part _I_ don't intend to let happen."

Harper waited a moment or two, but when it became apparent that Hardcastle didn't have a response, he stepped in again, offering the blunt truth, which was really the only response possible. "It's not your decision any more, Mark. You lost all your leverage when we figured out the name. Any refusal to cooperate now only hurts you— and maybe him in the process." He leaned a head toward the still silent jurist. "But you can't protect him any more. We _are_ going after Filapiano, and we will get him. You aren't in control of this situation any more."

"Was I ever?" McCormick asked bitterly. "You guys have been playing me like a chump." He looked back at Hardcastle. "I want to talk to Frank alone."

"What? Why? Whatever you need to say to him—"

"_Alone_, Judge," Mark interrupted tightly. "Maybe just to prove you're not in charge of _everything_."

Hardcastle pushed himself off the bed, hurt and anger warring for position on his face. All he said was, "I'll wait in your office," and he turned from the bed.

And just as Harper had decided that's the way it was going to end, the young man spoke up again.

"Judge?" He waited until Hardcastle stopped walking, but McCormick didn't seem surprised when the jurist didn't turn. He spoke sincerely to the man's back. "Just be careful."

It took a second or two, but then the older man turned back, his expression and tone equally sincere. "I will," he promised. "I'm taking care of me; you take care of you, okay?"

"Deal," McCormick answered softly.

Finally looking slightly relieved, Hardcastle gave a slight nod and continued out of the ward.

Harper was marveling just a little bit at the entire exchange when McCormick focused his attention again.

"Is there anything I can say, anything I can do, that will get me out of here?" Mark asked.

Frank was surprised. "Ah, you mean, just make this go away?" At McCormick's answering nod, Harper shook his own head. "I don't think so. You're in pretty deep right now. You can certainly start making it better, but these charges aren't just gonna disappear."

McCormick sighed slightly. "That's what I figured. All right then, it's gonna be up to you, Frank. You have to keep him safe."

"We told you; he'll be under watch until we get this thing worked out."

But Mark shook his head. "That's not enough. Protect him from Filapiano, yeah. But you have to protect him from himself, too. You know him, Frank; you know how he gets. If this thing doesn't break soon, he's gonna want to do something stupid. He's gonna go after the guy himself, or he's gonna ditch your protection just on general principle, or _something_. You have to keep him in line. That's your job while I'm in here."

"And what's your job?" Harper questioned.

McCormick seemed to be giving that a lot of thought. "I'm not even sure any more."

"How about to get out?"

"Seems unlikely," McCormick answered with a shrug.

"Because you've been being difficult," Frank told him in exasperation. "It's time to start racking up some points in your favor. Besides, you just told Milt you'd take care of yourself. This is kinda what he had in mind."

McCormick held his gaze, long and steady, though the young blue eyes were filled with uncertainty.

Harper spoke gently, persuasively. "This isn't the way to protect him any more, Mark. He needs you on the outside."

McCormick let out a slow breath. "What do I need to do?"

00000

"I still can't believe you're letting Walsh have first crack at that Costa character," Hardcastle grumbled as he pulled on his jacket. "And I can't believe you're kicking me out."

Harper grinned at him. "First of all, I already told you, my guys tried to question him in Florida, and he lawyered up fast enough to make your head spin. They aren't gonna get anywhere with him tonight. And what do you think he's gonna do, anyway? Suddenly start weeping and moaning about how bad he feels for what they did to poor little Mark? Not likely. Besides, you seem to forget that this isn't really my case. They've been letting me take point with Mark because of our relationship, hoping to take advantage of that. I don't have anything to offer for Costa, so they don't have any reason to give me access. I'm honestly not sure why they decided to question him here instead of just moving him on over to their place; maybe just saving the paperwork until tomorrow. But either way, they can do what they want; it's a federal case.

"And as for kicking you out, all I said was, it's after six, and there's nothing more we can do today, so you should go home." He tossed a stack of papers into a briefcase. "Of course, you can do what you want, but _I'm_ going home. I might even make it early enough that dinner will still be edible. Claudia's getting pretty good at making things that can simmer for a really long time, and then still be reheated if they have to. She calls them her 'Milt Meals'."

Hardcastle grimaced. "That's not funny. But tell her I'm sorry. When the kid gets home, we'll have you guys over for a real nice dinner; treat Claudia like a queen."

"She'd like that," Frank said with a smile. "But you know she doesn't blame you. And she'd do anything for Mark."

"Yeah," the judge answered, suddenly a little huffier, "how'd that happen, anyway? He just flashes those blue eyes at people, and they can't wait to fall all over themselves for him. You'd think—"

"Never mind, Milt," Harper interrupted with a laugh. "Let's just chalk it up to his natural charm, and get out of here. But let me call downstairs first, and get your escort arranged again."

Hardcastle stopped his turn. "Frank—"

The detective held up a palm. "It's non-negotiable, Milt. And if you try to lose them, next time you'll have a driver. And if you give me too much grief, I'll find a way to have you declared an uncooperative material witness and let you share a cell with Mark."

"Okay," Hardcastle chuckled, "let's not get carried away. Besides, I owe you one for getting the kid to agree to cooperate. The least I can do is put up with your escort, even if it is a waste of time and tax-payer dollars. Go ahead and call your guy."

With a smile, and thinking maybe he was finally on a roll, Harper quickly made the necessary arrangements before Hardcastle could change his mind, then gathered his briefcase and his friend and headed out the door.

00000

Hardcastle found that he couldn't quite stop looking in the rearview mirror, though he wasn't sure if it was to make certain his escort was still with him or to hope that he wasn't. He really did think the whole idea was kind of crazy; McCormick needed to learn to keep things in a proper perspective. Of course, he was almost getting used to it from Mark; the kid was a natural-born mother hen. But Frank . . . Frank should know better. A guy couldn't run and hide every time some low-life crazy started making threats. And this wasn't even your typical low-life crazy. He was prepared to believe a lot of things about Don Filapiano, but sheer stupidity didn't seem to fit the bill, and Hardcastle figured that coming after him now would be plain stupid.

Still, he'd been absolutely on the level about being glad McCormick had decided to cooperate. If it meant he had to put up with the hassle of armed guards following him around and staking out his house for a few days, that was a pretty small price to pay. Of course, when everything was back to normal and McCormick was settled in at home, he'd have to really play up the _hassle_ side of things; couldn't have the kid thinking he could always get his way. Then he chuckled quietly to himself, thinking the McCormick mouth would no doubt have a thing or two to say about the idea of 'his way' not having anything to do with being stuck in the clink for days on end, especially in solitary confinement, and—

Whatever other thoughts he had on the subject were suddenly interrupted by the crack of the glass of his passenger window, breaking in a way that experience told him would only be caused by a bullet. Not wanting to be a sitting duck, he fought the instinct to pull over and try to figure out where the shot had come from, and maintained his speed as he leaned over toward the glove box to get his own weapon. It was at that instant that the second shot rang through the cab of the truck, barely flying above his lowered head, and spraying him with shattered glass. He heard the siren, and saw the lights flashing as the patrol car maneuvered itself between the truck and the shooter, and he could see the officer motioning him to the side of the road, which was beginning to seem like a pretty good idea. He was steering the truck toward the approaching pull-off when the third shot took out the front tire, pulling him violently off-course. He jerked on the wheel, overcompensated, then had to fight the skid across the gravel. He finally got the truck under control just as the flat tire dipped into the slight ditch at the roadside, stomping on the brakes and wrestling the truck to a full stop with a final bounce, punctuated as his head flopped forward, his forehead connecting solidly with the steering wheel. He thought briefly that one of the other things he'd admit only to himself was the fact that McCormick was definitely better at this sort of thing.

Hardcastle took a breath and was clambering out of the truck, when the patrol officer was suddenly in front of him.

"Judge Hardcastle, are you okay?" The man's eyes quickly took in the jurist, but then they were back to scanning the surrounding area.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Hardcastle groused, still trying to ease his way out of the truck.

"Sir, you need to stay put. In fact, I wish you'd get down. I've already called for backup." He looked again at the man in his charge. "And maybe I should call an ambulance," he suggested, passing a handkerchief to the judge.

"What're you talking about, Coltrane?" Hardcastle snapped. But he took the offered cloth and rubbed it across his face. He winced, and was surprised by the blood that came away on the fabric.

"Glass," Officer Coltrane said, almost apologetically, "and you've got a bit of a cut on your head." He was still keeping a watchful eye all around. "When the backup unit gets here, we really oughta at least run you by the ER and get that glass cleaned up. Those little pieces can be tricky."

Hardcastle didn't like the idea, but it had some merit, so he simply nodded as he twisted around, trying to figure out where his attacker had been. "Seems like he's gone now," he said to the officer, "but he was probably up on that little ridge back there." He gestured back the way they'd come. "Jackass," he muttered. "Not like I was the only car out here; coulda shot anybody."

"At least he didn't shoot _anybody_," Coltrane pointed out, just as the second patrol car pulled to a stop beside them. "I'm gonna go fill these guys in, sir; if you'd please stay in the truck."

Coltrane quickly met the two arriving officers; gave them a brief description of the incident, then put them in charge of arranging for getting Hardcastle's pickup back to its home as well as bringing an evidence team out to search the scene and the most likely areas of the sniper's perch. He himself was going to drive the judge to the hospital, then home, to continue his guard duty. Everyone agreed Coltrane might be getting the more dangerous assignment, and it had very little to do with the possibility of further sniper shots.

00000

Harper's phone had been ringing as he walked through his front door, and he had known by the way Claudia said 'It's for you' that he wasn't going to get his dinner after all. He had dropped his briefcase into an empty chair, and listened to a terse description of the attack before promising to meet Coltrane at the ER. Then he had hung up the phone, muttering a curse that had earned him a mildly disapproving look from his wife. Frank had smiled an apology, kissed Claudia hello and goodbye, then headed back out the door, promising her that he would grab a bite to eat before the night was over.

Now he was striding determinedly toward the emergency entrance at St. Mary's, wishing he wasn't so familiar with the route. Not that there was a single thing he could do here, and Coltrane had made it clear that the judge was fine, but Harper couldn't bring himself to subject one of his men to the ordeal of riding herd on Milton Hardcastle during an ER visit without at least running a little interference. Stopping at the admission desk, he was pointed back toward the curtained examination areas, and as soon as he spied Coltrane, he knew he'd made the right decision.

The officer was standing in the narrow hallway, looking decidedly ill-at-ease, but the expression turned hopeful as he saw Harper approaching. "Lieutenant," Coltrane began, "sorry to bother you with this."

Harper waved it away. "How's it going?"

"He's fine; they just took him in a few minutes ago. Got a bump on his head, which I don't think is too bad, but he's got some glass cuts on his face. It's probably okay, too, but I figured better safe than sorry." He shook his head. "I thought he thought so, too, until we were actually on our way here. And then when we had to wait a little while . . ." The officer trailed off, and Harper knew the younger man was trying not to say something that might be viewed as inappropriate.

"Don't worry about it, Coltrane; he just doesn't like hospitals much." Frank smiled. "Mostly it's just that anytime an ER is involved, there are usually bad guys to catch, and his priorities are a little different than most."

Coltrane chuckled. "He did say something about wanting to talk to the evidence techs, to see if they found anything useful. And even when he kicked me out and told me to wait in the hall, he was talking about going back to the station after we were done here. Said there was a prisoner he wanted to question."

Harper shook his head. "Donkey. Not to worry; this is the last stop before Gull's Way. You did the right thing." He clapped the officer on the shoulder, then continued on toward Hardcastle's treatment bay.

"Knock knock," Harper said cheerfully, pushing the curtain out of the way.

There was a nurse just finishing up the irrigation of Hardcastle's face. "None too deep," she was saying, "and we got it all out, so you'll be fine." She glanced back at the detective. "You know him?" she asked her patient.

"He's okay," Hardcastle assured her. He looked over at Frank. "Don't tell McCormick," he greeted. "He'll just want to say 'I told you so'."

Harper grinned. "He might've earned the right." He dragged up a chair. "On the other hand, we don't want to get sloppy. No one else you can think of that might've wanted to take a shot at you today, is there?"

Hardcastle shrugged. "No more than any other day."

The lieutenant laughed at the surprised expression the nurse couldn't quite hide as she worked at cleaning the small gash on the judge's forehead. "He likes to stay busy," he told her lightly.

"I suppose it could be some sort of job security around here," she responded, and Hardcastle rolled his eyes.

"It's not like I do it on purpose," he huffed. "I had my armed guard close by and everything."

"And it's a good thing. Every little bit of discouragement helps when you've got someone taking potshots at you."

"That sounds reasonable," the nurse agreed, as she swabbed at Hardcastle's forehead. "This won't even need stitches," she told him, and applied a bandage. "Sounds like you got pretty lucky." She cleared her work area. "The doctor will be back to talk with you again in a bit," she said, then left the room.

"She's right, you know," Frank said as soon as she was gone. "You were lucky."

"Well, there's probably a reason Filapiano usually hires someone to do his killing for him," Hardcastle crabbed. "But you've got his mob gun in custody, so I guess he had to give it a try himself."

"Yeah, about that . . . we're going to have to re-think our plan of attack, Milt. If he's gonna come after you in the middle of a crowded highway, there's not much telling what he might do. We both know the protection we can offer you is no real guarantee of safety, and we can't keep it up forever anyway. We have to find a way to flush him out."

"I already told Coltrane we need to go back to the station and talk to that Randall character," the judge answered. "He might have some answers for us."

But Harper shook his head. "Uh-uh. Not tonight, Milt. I already told you; he's not talking to anybody until he talks to his attorney, and I'm sure he's gonna be advised to keep pretty quiet after that. Besides, what do you really think he knows?"

"I dunno," Hardcastle admitted. "But I'm hoping the feds are gonna be just as quick to throw those fifty years at him as they were at McCormick, and then I'm hoping he's got _something_ to offer." He shifted around on the small bed. "I know it's a long shot . . ." he mumbled, trailing off.

"No," Frank said, "it makes sense; it's a good place to start. But not for you, and not tonight. And we still need to figure out what we're gonna do if he doesn't have anything to cough up. But all of that can wait until tomorrow. Let the feds have their crack at him, for what it's worth. Tonight, you're going to let me and Coltrane drive you home so you can get some rest. And me, too."

Hardcastle grinned sheepishly. "Guess I'm gonna owe Claudia more than dinner if this keeps up, huh? You, too."

"We'll both be satisfied if you and Mark make it through in one piece," Frank said honestly. "So behave yourself, and don't be trying to bully my guys into doing things you shouldn't be doing, okay?"

"Oh, all right," the older man agreed with a mock huff, "if I have to."

"Good," Harper laughed. He looked around as the doctor re-entered the treatment area. "Then I'll be waiting outside."


	3. Part 3

**Chapter 6**

Hardcastle's huffiness was a little more real by the time he walked into Harper's office the next morning. "I am still capable of driving myself, ya know," he snapped before the door was even fully opened.

The detective didn't even look up. "Yep," he said mildly, "though I am pretty sure someone tried to kill you yesterday, and that you're a little less of a target in a squad car. Besides, the report I got was that the pickup wasn't drivable, so unless you had a mechanic out overnight—"

"I could've driven the 'Vette," Hardcastle interrupted stubbornly.

Harper finally stopped what he was doing with his morning reports and looked at the other man. "That would've been very helpful," he began sarcastically, "to have you driving yourself around in a classic sports car with no top. Very circumspect."

The judge smirked as he dropped into the chair across from Frank's desk. "You really gotta stop spending so much time with McCormick; you're turning into a regular smart-ass."

Frank grinned. "I think that's why he likes me."

"No doubt. But what's going on now? What's with Walsh wanting to see us?"

Harper answered with a shrug. "Not sure; he called first thing this morning and asked if I'd get you down here. Said it might help McCormick, but that's all I know."

"Has Costa been transferred into his custody yet?"

"Nope. But you still can't talk to him."

"You're gettin' to be a real pain in the ass, too," Hardcastle muttered.

"Hey, you wanna come back to work, we'll see if we can get around the age limits. In the meantime, you're just a concerned citizen, and you can't be meddling around with questioning the suspects in a federal case—especially this case. You're gonna get us both in a lot of trouble. Let's just wait and see what Walsh wants; he should be here any minute."

The judge scrunched down in his seat and did some more low grade muttering, but he knew Harper was right, so he let the man get back to his reports and waited. Fortunately, he didn't have to wait long.

Several minutes later there was a knock, and Harper called out an invitation. Hardcastle straightened slightly, and was surprised to see Agent Carruthers entering the office rather than Walsh.

"Morning," the lieutenant greeted, motioning the agent toward an empty chair. Hardcastle thought he seemed fairly surprised, too. And then he just asked. "I was expecting your partner."

Carruthers grinned slightly. "Yeah, but he didn't figure you'd miss him. He's reinterviewing the witnesses, so I thought I'd come talk to you guys."

"So what's up with Costa, anyway?" Harper went on. "I figured the transfer papers would be on my desk this morning. You guys making any progress with him?"

"That's actually what I want to talk to you about." Carruthers shifted slightly toward Hardcastle. "Really, I wanted to talk to you, Judge."

The jurist raised an eyebrow encouragingly.

"Seems like Costa might actually have a fairly reasonable attorney—"

"They _do_ exist, ya know," Hardcastle interjected tartly.

"Anyway," the agent continued easily, "seems like she wants him to cooperate, try and cut a deal. I guess he's a little reluctant, and she wants to talk to you first."

"_Me_?"

Carruthers nodded. "We figure she wants to make sure everything's lined up between you, since you'll be co-defendants and all."

Hardcastle's face slowly reddened. "You're getting ahead of yourself, Agent. First of all, whatever she's thinking, there won't be any co-defending going on. The first thing I intend to do is file for a severance of trials, though Costa's attorney is really the one who ought to be thinking about that. McCormick's defense is going to be highly prejudicial to Costa; completely inculpatory. What _you_ oughta be doing is offering him a deal to clear my client; you know he's not really the guy you're after. Who is this attorney, anyway?"

"Ah, Doleton is her name. Michelle Doleton."

Suddenly, Hardcastle laughed. "Shelley? Well, you're lucky I don't want Costa to get off, or we _would_ team up and beat your butt."

"I take it you know her?" Carruthers asked.

"Oh, yeah, we go way back." The judge looked over at Harper. "Do you know her, Frank? Used to work for the DA for a while before she decided we were persecuting too many innocent people and switched sides?

"I think I met her on cross once or twice," Harper answered. "She's tough."

"She is that," Hardcastle grinned. He sobered slightly. "But she's usually a better judge of her clientele. Wonder what she's doing hooked up with this Costa character?"

"Everyone deserves a defense," Carruthers pointed out.

"I suppose. I just wish she wasn't gonna be his." He gave a small shrug. "Oh, well; can't worry about that. What about your interview with Costa? What do you think he's willing to deal on?"

"I don't know," the agent admitted. "What we want is Filapiano and the rest of the money. He only hinted that he might have information to trade; we don't have any idea if it'll be useful."

"Are you throwing fifty years in his face, too?"

"Absolutely. Equal opportunity threats, that's our business. He seemed a little more fazed by it than your guy."

"That's because he's only concerned with himself," Harper pointed out. "McCormick had a greater purpose."

"You know Walsh doesn't believe that at all," Carruthers said flatly. "That's why he's talking to the witnesses again."

"And what about you?" Frank asked.

The federal officer seemed to think about that for a moment. "I don't know," he said slowly. "There were times he seemed awfully . . . _sincere_." He cocked a puzzled eyebrow in Hardcastle's direction. "I might almost believe he cared about you."

"I'm not a bad guy," Hardcastle said indignantly.

"You did put him in prison."

"Yeah, but that was—" Hardcastle broke off, considering. He'd been going to say 'a long time ago', but realized that wasn't entirely true. Certainly he didn't think McCormick had yet relegated it to the distant past. And yet . . . He settled for what _felt_ like the truth.

"It was a lifetime ago."

00000

Carruthers had pointed him in the direction of the interrogation room where Shelley Doleton was meeting with her client. Hardcastle had had some small hope that she might invite him into the small room, thereby finally giving him the opening to speak with Costa that he'd been searching for, but apparently she wasn't feeling that generous. Doleton excused herself from her client and joined the jurist in the hallway. But she did greet him with a huge smile and a brief hug.

"Milton Hardcastle! How've you been? It's so good to see you, though this isn't exactly the best way to catch up with old friends." Then she looked at him critically. "And what happened to you, anyway?"

He shook his head ruefully; he'd hoped his face wouldn't attract comments. He wasn't looking forward to hearing from McCormick. "Nothing to worry about," he assured her with a quick smile. "And it's good to see you, too, Shelley. But we need to talk about this case." He frowned a little. "How'd you get stuck with this Costa guy?"

Doleton frowned back at him. "I might ask you the same thing about that McCormick character of yours. Only the way I hear it, you're kind of stuck with him long-term. Or at least that was the plan before all this. What were you thinking, taking an ex-con into your home, Milt?"

Hardcastle's frown deepened. "Don't jump to conclusions about things you don't know anything about," he warned. "You don't know Mark McCormick."

"And you don't know Rodrigo Costa."

He thought about that a second. "Oh. So you're trying to make a point? Well, I'll tell you, I might not know much about Rodrigo Costa, but I know the only thing that matters: last week, he and another guy kidnapped McCormick, held him for days against his will, and forced him into helping them rob a bank. So whatever else he may be or may've done, I honestly don't care. Trying to use McCormick like that is going to turn out to be a costly mistake for your client."

Doleton was staring, eyes widened. After a long moment, she finally spoke again. "You don't _really_ believe that's what happened?"

"Of course I do. One of the many things you don't know about McCormick is that he doesn't lie to me."

"Would it matter to you if I said that's exactly what Costa said happened to him last week? Only in his version, it was McCormick and Filapiano who did the kidnapping and coercing."

The words dropped like a bomb and it was Hardcastle's turn to stare. He finally managed to force out, "You're kidding."

Doleton shook her head. "Nope. So how believable does it sound now?"

The judge raked a hand through his hair. "Has he said that to the feds yet?"

"Not yet. I heard you were defending that McCormick kid, and wanted to give you a heads up first. Besides, unless you file for severance, we're going to be co-counsel. But you really ought to, you know, so my client doesn't prejudice the jury against you."

Hardcastle sighed. "Look, Shelley, you've got this all wrong. I do intend to file for severance, but only because my client is innocent. He was coerced into his part in this crime. It's you that should be worried about prejudicial testimony." He looked at her intently. "Have you seen all the evidence against your client?"

"Agent Walsh has outlined it for me. We're going to meet later this morning to discuss the particulars."

"Agent Walsh," Hardcastle scoffed. "Agent Walsh just wants to close this case, and he wants three convictions. I'm not convinced he's too concerned who those three convictions are, and I'm certain he's not real worried about the details. He knows both our clients were in that bank; that's enough for him.

"But if no one's bothered to spell it out for you yet, let me tell you about the part your client's not gonna be able to get around. You know about the guard in the bank, right? Got beaten pretty badly?" Doleton nodded and Hardcastle continued, "Well he's coming around nicely now, and he's gonna swear that it was Costa who did the beating. And, incidentally, McCormick who saved his life."

The attorney paled slightly. "Costa told me essentially the exact opposite."

Hardcastle gave his head a shake. "Your client seems to have a problem with reality, Shelley. What did he think? That the guy just wouldn't remember?"

"Ah, I think it's possible that he thinks he might've been rather permanently incapacitated."

"He didn't get that lucky. And have you seen the bank security photos yet? I'll be interested to hear why your guy's wearing gloves and McCormick's bare-handed, leaving prints all over the place. I'm telling you; he's dirty. Whatever defense you might build, you should know that. And you should know that my client is innocent."

Doleton rose from her seat. "My client is my primary responsibility," she told Hardcastle.

"No arguments there," he agreed. "But I thought you'd want to know the truth."

She nodded. "We can talk again after I spend a little more time with Costa?"

Hardcastle smiled. "Sure. And before you talk to the feds, right?"

Returning the smile, she said, "We're still co-counsel so far."

00000

"I still don't understand how you don't know anything more than before," Carruthers complained for at least the fourth time.

"As I told you, Agent," Hardcastle explained with infinite patience, "Shelley simply had some questions about the case. She still has information to gather from her client before she's ready to talk any specifics with me, and certainly before she's ready to talk to you. And she absolutely understands that my agenda may run contrary to hers."

The judge thought Harper was being unusually quiet during the conversation, which almost undoubtedly meant the detective knew more than he was saying, but that could be dealt with later. For now, the fed needed to be persuaded.

"As soon as she's comfortable with the details," the jurist continued, "I'll certainly encourage her to try to work something out with you. Especially if it's something that might be beneficial to McCormick."

"And you'll keep us informed when you know something?" Carruthers asked, rising, and moving toward the door.

"As much as would be appropriate," Hardcastle replied, managing to somehow temporize while giving every appearance of honest cooperation.

"All right," Harper began, barely waiting for the door to close, "what did she _really_ say?"

Hardcastle grimaced. "I hope I wasn't _that_ transparent."

"Only to me," Harper reassured. "Now what's going on?"

"It wasn't good," the older man sighed. "Costa's spinning a role reversal; trying to paint himself as the victim, with Filapiano and McCormick the kidnappers."

"You're kidding."

"No." He let out another sigh and swiped a thumb across his nose. "Not that it woulda worked for long, but the story could've caused some trouble for a while. McCormick doesn't need that kind of complication right now."

"So you set her straight?" Frank asked.

"Yep. She's gonna talk to him a while longer, and then we'll compare notes a little bit more. She knows he's in deep, whatever the details. She's gonna be looking for a deal. I just hope she'll be willing to offer up something that gets the kid out of this mess."

Harper didn't seem very hopeful. "Do you really think that's likely?"

"Likely? No. But we are old friends, and I do have the innocent client. What's right matters to her. If she can find a way to do the right thing, she will."

"Well, let's hope she finds a way to get creative," Frank said fervently.

00000

Hardcastle took a breath and hoped for the best before pushing the curtain aside and stepping into McCormick's room. He had seriously considered sending Frank down instead, just to avoid the inevitable questions, but had ultimately decided that would only lead to _other_ questions. Honestly, there were times McCormick worried far too much for his own good, but this probably wasn't the time to just drop out of the kid's sight. And besides, Shelley had a question she needed answered, so someone had to ask. He offered the standard cheery greeting.

"Hey, kiddo. How ya doin?" He was a little surprised to find the young man semi-dozing, but maybe that would work in his favor. A drowsy McCormick wouldn't be an alert McCormick and—

"What the hell happened to your head?"

His hand rose reflexively to his forehead. "This little scratch?" He'd pulled the bandage off, thinking he'd attract less attention that way, but that had clearly been in vain.

"Yeah, that two-inch _scratch_ gouged into your forehead. What is it? And what happened to your face?" McCormick was sitting upright, looking the judge up and down critically. "Don't bother trying to come up with a scam answer, Hardcase, just tell me the truth. What happened?"

Hardcastle dragged up the bedside chair and dropped into it. "I'm glad you were getting some sleep," he ventured. "Sorry I woke you."

"_Hardcastle_ . . ."

The judge tried not to smile at the kid's attitude, and decided to quit messing with him. "It's nothing I want you to worry about," he began. "My protection did their job. But someone took a shot at me yesterday, on the way home. There was some glass, and a little bump on the head on the steering wheel. Everything's fine."

McCormick was twisting the bed sheet in his hands, clenching and unclenching his jaw, his eyes filled with anger and regret. The words he finally managed were tinged with near despair. "Why won't you let me do this my way?"

The judge did offer a small smile then, gentle and reassuring. "I told you, kid; everything's fine."

"Is Filapiano in custody?" McCormick demanded. "Because if he's not, then nothing is even _close_ to fine. And, God, Judge, even if he is, he's not really the kind to get his hands dirty. He could've hired someone."

"All right, look," Hardcastle began firmly, "you've gotta get a grip here. This is not the first time some guy's been out to get me. I've had shots taken at me before. I can—" He broke off the lecture as he saw the tortured expression on McCormick's face. "_What_?"

"Nothing," McCormick muttered angrily.

"What?" Hardcastle repeated. "You know I'm gonna get it out of you eventually; you might as well just tell me."

Mark blew out a breath as he dragged a hand through his hair. "I know you can take care of yourself, Judge," he began hesitantly, "and I know Frank's got guys covering your back, but . . ."

And in the silence, Hardcastle thought maybe he finally got his answer. "But maybe that's supposed to be your job?" he suggested.

"That is what you got me for," McCormick replied with a shrug. "And especially when I caused the problems to begin with. I ought to be able to help."

"Unbelievable. Listen, kiddo, I don't wanna have to say this again. This isn't your fault. We might need to have a little talk about decision-making, and how you need to learn to maybe put the law above your personal feelings, but, still, you didn't really cause this. Filapiano crossed me off his top ten list a long time ago. And besides . . ." He hesitated a moment, considering.

"Besides what?" McCormick prompted.

The older man gave his own shrug. "I was just gonna say that having someone to watch my back isn't the only reason I keep you around."

Mark arched an eyebrow, a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah?"

"Sure," Hardcastle answered gruffly. "Whattaya think? I mean, there's still the hedges, and the gutters, and—" He ducked as the pillow came flying toward him. "Just want you to keep things in perspective," he added, straightening again.

"Oh, yeah," McCormick laughed, "there's plenty of perspective around here, not to worry." He gestured vaguely around him. "Until someone gives me a key to this place, I don't think there's much chance I'm gonna forget where I stand."

Hardcastle cast a quick glance into his friend's eyes. He knew he could sometimes take his teasing too far; he didn't want this to be one of those times. He was relieved to see that the twinkle hadn't faded. He winked, and grinned. "We'll make our own key. Bad as I hate to admit it, it's another one of those things you've always been pretty good at." He sobered. "I don't have any intention of letting you stay here, kiddo."

Becoming more serious, too, McCormick nodded. "I know you don't, Judge." Then he held out a hand. "Gimme my pillow back, will ya?" He stuffed it back behind him again.

"Anyway, the guys from IA came by last night; I answered all their questions, just like you wanted me to."

"It was the right thing to do," the older man assured him.

"I'd feel better about that if you weren't sitting there looking like a guy who got stuck in a shooting gallery."

Hardcastle shrugged. "The consequence of an action is not always what makes it right or wrong."

McCormick seemed to think about that for a moment. "I might even agree with that in theory," he finally responded, "I'm just not sure it applies right now." He sighed. "All I'm saying, Judge, is to be careful. If you let this guy kill you, I'm going to be seriously ticked off."

"Okay," Hardcastle smiled, "got it. But what about IA? I haven't had a chance to talk to them yet. Do they sound like they want to help us out any?"

"I dunno. They seemed pretty thankful for my cooperation, but they weren't making any promises. Let's face it, Hardcase; they already had a case against the guy. He wasn't gonna be a cop any more, anyway. And this is a federal case. They don't have a lot of pull."

"Maybe. But it never hurts to make a few friends."

"But what's going on out in the real world?" McCormick asked. "Get anything from Randall? I mean, um, Costa?"

"I haven't been allowed to see him yet, but that's actually why I'm here. We might've caught a lucky break on that one. His defense attorney is an old friend of mine—and no, I don't know _everyone_, McCormick," Hardcastle huffed as the young man rolled his eyes— "and she might be willing to help us out, as long as it helps her client, too. But she had a question. She wants to know how you knew about Costa's Florida connections."

McCormick arched an eyebrow as he scratched at his forehead. "Huh? I dunno. One of 'em musta said something about it. I told you, it was kinda weird there for a while. We were really just hanging out. Sometimes Filapiano would just talk to me. What a whack job."

"So Filapiano told you, not Costa?"

McCormick paused. "Um . . ." He shook his head. "Hang on, let me think. Maybe it wasn't even something he said to me . . . no, that was it. A couple of things, really. Once, he was talking to Costa, and said something about growing up dodging all the 'gators in the swamps. Costa got pissed and changed the subject fast. Then one other time, when he was in one of his conversational moods, Filapiano was asking me if I ever thought about getting back to racing full time. Said maybe if I wanted to take my share of the money and start again, maybe Randall could introduce me to some people back in the Daytona area. That was it, though. Nothing specific."

Hardcastle rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. "Well that seems a little odd, doesn't it? I mean, that he'd go to all the trouble to protect the guy's identity with a fake name, and try and hide his prints and all, but drop clues to you about where he comes from?"

"Doesn't seem that strange to me," McCormick said. "I already told Frank; he's the second fall guy."

"You think he fed you the information?"

"Sure. In his mind, we're the criminals anyway. It makes sense that the convicted felons should be the sacrificial lambs."

"Maybe." Hardcastle thought about the idea. "It just seems awfully . . . _calculating_."

"'Calculating'?" McCormick repeated. "Of course it's calculating. But probably not any more so than scamming out an entire bank heist and kidnapping." He shook his head. "You know what your problem is, Judge? You've got a blind spot for people like Filapiano, even after everything that's happened."

"I do not," the older man objected immediately.

"You do," Mark insisted. "You still think of him as a cop first. A dirty cop, maybe, but still a cop. He's not a cop, Judge; he's one of the bad guys, and it's time you understand that."

"I've known he was one of the bad guys a damn long time," Hardcastle snapped. "You don't need to lecture me about that."

McCormick looked at him intently. "But you still can't believe it. No," he amended quickly, "that's not quite right. You know it's true; you just don't _want_ it to be true. You hate it when the good guys go south. That's the way all you legal types are. But it's that kind of thinking that's kept him a step ahead of you guys, and that's the kind of thinking that's going to get you killed. So when I tell you he's calculating—or anything else that I saw—you might just want to accept it instead of trying to figure out how he could maybe be just a little bit less of a criminal."

Hardcastle sat back heavily in his seat, examining his friend. "You think I'm defending him?" he asked after a moment.

"Not defending him," McCormick clarified. "But you think he's a _different_ kind of bad. And all I'm saying is that he's just plain _bad_. I woulda thought the shots into your pickup might've been a pretty good clue for you on that."

The judge thought for a long moment, then let out a sigh. "You could be right," he admitted slowly. He thought the kid did a pretty good job of keeping the astonishment from his face; didn't even crack a joke to ask what he'd been smoking today. Hardcastle found that he appreciated McCormick's occasional ability to keep his mouth shut.

What Mark finally said was, "I know you don't like saying that; maybe it'll keep you a little more on your toes while you're out there working. Because I don't want to get to say 'I told you so' about anything else."

Hardcastle pushed himself to his feet. "Okay," he agreed, "that'll be the only thing. I'll have Frank triple the guard if we have to. I'll make sure I'm still walking around when you get out of here. But now I gotta go talk to some more people. And Lazenby's been doing some checking; maybe one of us will come up with something."

"Okay," McCormick nodded. "I'll keep waiting. You don't do anything stupid."

"That's my line," Hardcastle said with a grin. But as he was leaving the small ward, he couldn't help but think that a straight-forward and honest assessment of any situation was another reason he kept the kid around. And he hoped McCormick might realize just how much help he could be, even from a bed in a locked cell.

**Chapter 7**

Harper looked around the small conference room. After Hardcastle had gotten back from his last visit with McCormick and relayed his information to Doleton, it hadn't taken long to put together a confab with the interested parties. But the problem with this sort of situation was that that there tended to be different points of view; it was unlikely that new developments were going to please everyone. He was watching a perfect case in point.

Agent Walsh had risen half-way from his seat to lean over the table, pounding a fist for emphasis. His face was almost purple with rage as he glared across the tiny distance. For a change, it wasn't Hardcastle who glared back, the object of the anger, but rather, Shelly Doleton. But it was Hardcastle the detective watched closely, as the judge sat quietly, watching the exchange. The man didn't have much practice in the role of bystander—especially with something that would ultimately be so important to him. But Harper thought he was doing a pretty good job at simply observing.

"That's blackmail!" Walsh was saying.

"Call it what you will," Doleton answered, "though I'm not sure it's any more blackmail than the ridiculous half-century worth of imprisonment you've been threatening our clients with. But whatever you call it, you can't force a person to offer testimony that incriminates himself, and you know it. But, anyway, Agent," she added coolly, "I wasn't really speaking to you." She turned her attention to the gentleman seated next to Walsh, and Harper was amused by her dismissal of the agent.

"Mr. Griggs," Doleton continued to the US Attorney, "I understand that you're trying to support your investigators in this situation, but Agent Walsh is backing you into a corner. You need to start thinking about presenting a winnable case. And, you might want to give just a minute or two of thought to actually charging and convicting the right people. My client can give you fairly comprehensive information about this case, but we will not subject ourselves to additional charges. If Mr. Costa is able to establish that another of the parties acted under duress, I need a guarantee that there will be no attempt to levy additional charges pursuant to kidnapping."

Walter Griggs cast a quick glance at Walsh and seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "In this instance, kidnapping would more properly be a state charge to be pursued."

"State charges aren't going to be a problem," Hardcastle interjected. "The DA has agreed to leave this as a federal matter."

"Must be nice to have that kind of pull," Walsh muttered.

"It is, actually," the jurist agreed with a thin smile. Then he left Doleton to her business.

"And," Shelley picked up seamlessly, "what we're actually dealing with here is kidnapping to facilitate a federal crime. I need an assurance there won't be additional charges if my client offers new information."

"You mean if he lies to cover one of his cohorts," Walsh said angrily.

"I'm not in the habit of asking my clients to perjure themselves," Doleton returned icily.

Harper stepped into the mix, directing his comments carefully. "Mr. Griggs, our investigation has found nothing to contradict Mr. McCormick's account of his involvement in this situation. There is no indication that he was anything other than an unwilling participant. Mr. Walsh isn't too happy about it, but I'm sure he'll tell you that his investigation has shown the same thing. You have a chance to get corroborating testimony on record that will clear an innocent man. That has to be more important than a few extra charges you might be able to tack on to Costa."

"And what about Filapiano?" Griggs asked.

"What about him?"

"We want him." The attorney pointed to the agent. "_He_ wants him. That doesn't seem unreasonable."

Harper was puzzled. "Well, McCormick can't give him to you. I'm not sure Costa can. But refusing to make the deal that could clear McCormick isn't gonna get him, one way or the other."

Griggs nodded thoughtfully. "Okay," he finally said slowly. "No kidnapping charges, or anything that stems from it. Get his statement on record."

Harper was watching Hardcastle again, seeing the relief begin to creep across his face. From the corner of his eye, he could see the anger on Walsh's face. Both faces filled with surprise at Griggs' next words.

"But I'm not dropping the charges against McCormick."

"_What_?" Hardcastle had leaned forward in his seat, looking intently across at Griggs. No more bystanding now. "You cannot possibly be moving forward with charges knowing that he was forced into cooperation. There is absolutely no basis for a good faith indictment."

"You client robbed a bank, Mr. Hardcastle; that is not in dispute. And coercion is not a matter of law, but a matter of fact. Last time I checked, matters of fact were precisely the sorts of things best decided at trial, especially if there are conflicting facts."

"What's conflicting?" Hardcastle demanded. "McCormick participated because he was forced to; Costa and Filapiano did the forcing. Simple as that."

"With the exception of the security guard, witnesses at the bank do not seem to believe there was anything less than full cooperation by all three parties. Neighbors who saw McCormick at the house in La Crescenta do not report that he was taken there against his will." Griggs paused. "Then there's always the matter of his confession."

Hardcastle grimaced, and Harper knew it was because he hated to hear the truth. He understood suddenly why they often didn't let the accused parties participate in these kinds of discussions; in the midst of all the legal wrangling, justice sometimes seemed a long way down the list. He was developing a much greater appreciation for McCormick's underlying distrust of the system. Then Hardcastle was speaking in frustration.

"What you're not getting is that I don't have anything to trade. McCormick's got nothing to give, because he wasn't involved." All the relief that had been evident just moments earlier had vanished and was being replaced by something very close to despair.

"Then you better work something out with your co-counsel," Walsh said, rising from the table, "because I intend to wrap this thing up. It'll just be easier on your guys if they help me out."

Harper watched the federal representatives leave the conference room, then turned back to the co-counsels. "It's a start," he told Hardcastle.

"Yeah," Doleton agreed. "Should guarantee a separation of trials—if it has to go that far—and make your case for duress almost unbeatable."

"It's the 'almost' part I'd like to eliminate," Hardcastle groused. Then he seemed to remember his manners. "Not that I don't appreciate what you've done for McCormick, Shelley," he added, "really. God knows, Costa didn't have to come clean at all."

"Trust me, when Walsh isn't around doing his chest-beating routine, Griggs and I are gonna have a little talk about that, too. We're going to get the charges down to a reasonable matter." She paused, then added, "And if we can find a way to deliver this Filapiano guy, I might even catch a break on sentencing, and you could get your charges dropped completely."

Hardcastle and Harper both looked at her sharply, but it was the detective who spoke. "You think he knows more than he's saying?" He narrowed his eyes. "Or do you know more than you're saying?"

"Frank," Hardcastle began, but Doleton cut him off.

"It's a fair question, Milt, but the answer—at least for my part—is no. I don't know about Costa. He's a pretty cagey character, I'll give you that. But he's been around enough to see the writing on the wall. He got the idea that Filapiano was willing to use him as a fall guy, so he gave up the kidnapping. I'm pretty sure he doesn't actually know where he is, or he would've used that as a bartering chip already; he was pretty pissed. But there might be something he doesn't even know could be useful. After we get this other thing on record and get rid of the feds again, I'll see what I can find out." She scooted her chair back and got to her feet. She looked at Hardcastle in obvious concern. "We'll make it work out," she said kindly, then left the room.

Harper took a closer look at the judge. It occurred to him then that maybe too much time in close proximity to the man hadn't fully allowed him to see the extent of the concern he was feeling, or the toll it was taking. "Just how much sleep have you gotten this week?" he asked.

"Hm?" Hardcastle seemed to be focused on something else. "Sleep?" He finally looked at Harper sharply. "Enough. Don't be getting distracted; I don't need two of you goin' all mother-hen on me. I need you to stay on top of the investigation, since you're insisting on keeping me at arm's length."

"I am staying on top of things, Milt," Harper told him. "I can still worry about you in the process. You really are starting to look a little run down."

"I'll worry about that when I can be sure McCormick's not gonna spend the next twenty years of his life in a maximum security institution." He pushed himself out of his chair, signaling the end of the conversation. "Now, yesterday you were talking about finding a way to flush out Filapiano," he continued, moving toward the door. "This seems like an excellent time to figure out how exactly we might do that."

Harper just smiled and shook his head ruefully, following his friend out the door.

00000

The two men were huddled again around Harper's desk, poring over every bit of information the LAPD had accumulated on Don Filapiano, which turned out to be quite a bit.

"That's what happens when you become the subject of an Internal Affairs investigation," Harper commented, looking over all the surveillance data.

"Yeah," Hardcastle agreed dryly, "they've got more stuff in their files than I do in mine."

Harper chuckled, then called out a greeting to the unexpected tap on the door. "Come in." He looked up, motioned Shelley Doleton in, and pointed her to the empty chair.

"You guys finding anything?" she asked, taking in the papers strewn over the desk.

"Not much," Frank answered. "They did observe Filapiano several times in what appears to have been some sort of surveillance around Milt's house." He frowned and shook his head. "Still can't believe no one bothered to warn you about that."

Hardcastle shrugged. "You know the drill; nothing overtly threatening, and they didn't want to blow their own surveillance. Besides, as it turns out, he was probably watching McCormick more than he was watching me. But what about you?" he asked, turning his attention to Doleton. "How'd the questioning go with Walsh? And did you get anything else?"

"Well, Walsh really doesn't want to let McCormick off the hook, I can tell you that. He must've rephrased his questions a dozen different ways, just trying to trip Costa up, looking for the holes in his story. But I think he's finally ready to accept the fact that he's telling the truth. You know, interestingly enough, I think he's probably not a bad guy; he just really wants to close this case."

Hardcastle's 'hmph' made clear he wasn't in complete agreement with the assessment, but he didn't say anything further about it. Instead he clarified his questioning. "So did you find out if Costa knows anything else about Filapiano? Does he have any idea where the guy might be?"

The attorney shook her head. "This really was strictly a financial arrangement; there didn't seem to be any personal involvement. At least," she corrected, "not until Filapiano apparently tried to set him up to take a fall while he got off scot-free. That seems to have made it a little more personal to Costa."

"I'll bet," Harper snorted.

"Yeah," Hardcastle agreed, "though he obviously didn't have any problem doing the same thing to McCormick."

"Anyway," Doleton went on, "he says he really doesn't know what his plans were, doesn't know where he might've gone to hide out. Said they met different places, up until they got the house in La Crescenta. There was a number Costa called to leave a message; that's the only kind of contact they had when they weren't together, so that's not much help. He did say, though, that it wouldn't surprise him to know that the guy had hung around town, just to see what happened. Said Filapiano had it in for you pretty bad, Milt. Seemed to think he would've enjoyed watching you see McCormick go down."

"Yep, I think he would've liked that, too. So what woulda made him start taking shots at me? The kid's still in jail; still looking at a big chunk of years behind bars. If that's what he wanted, he's done a pretty damn good job."

"Yeah," Harper put in, "but then folks started looking for him. He's gotta figure Mark gave him up, which is exactly what he didn't want. So, he figures he's gotta take you out, because that's the price he set for betrayal. He doesn't know Mark's still sittin' here behind bars, willing to sacrifice himself. He doesn't know his plan is still working."

"None of which helps us find him," Hardcastle snapped. "How're you supposed to work a guy who doesn't even have sense enough to know he's got what he set out for?"

"Okay," Frank placated, "so he hung around to watch you suffer. And after that didn't seem to be working, he hung around to try and knock you off. Seems the logical thing to do would've been to get the hell out of town. So he's fixated on you enough that his own safety has become secondary. Maybe we don't have to know where to find him; maybe we can bring him to us."

"How?" Doleton and Hardcastle asked in unison.

"Ah, I haven't quite gotten that far yet," Harper admitted. "Just seems like there oughta be a way to make it happen. 'Course," he looked over at the judge, "you know that means you'd have to be the bait."

"Oh, I don't care about that," Hardcastle answered, his tone making it clear that was truly a minor consideration. He thought for a second, then glanced at Doleton, "I wonder if Filapiano still answers that phone?"

But it was Harper who answered. "Even if he does, you can't be calling him. And just what do you think you'd say to him, anyway?"

"I'm sure I could think of a choice word or two," Milt said blandly.

"No doubt," the detective grinned, "though that's not exactly what I had in mind."

"Maybe we could have Costa give him a call," Doleton suggested, "see if he can set up a meet?"

"He's gotta know the guy's in custody," Hardcastle objected. "They were covering his extradition from Florida on the news. Filapiano would never fall for it."

"Well, then," Harper said, "if you really don't mind being bait—and if you don't mind getting a little egg on your face—maybe we should make a little news of our own. Maybe you could do a press conference—talk about how the system is working just like it should, and how, yeah, it's hard to find out McCormick was involved, but at least justice is being served, though we won't stop until we find the last culprit—you know the drill. And then . . ." He trailed off as he saw the judge's simmering anger. "What?"

"Maybe I wasn't understanding," Hardcastle began, his voice low and threatening, "because I can't believe you'd suggest I stand up in front of a bunch of reporters and say that McCormick is actually _involved_ in this fiasco."

"Just as part of the act, Milt," Frank explained. "Then—"

"No," the older man interrupted firmly. "Not even as part of the act. The kid has a hard enough time with some folks figuring out which side he's really on; I'm not gonna make it worse, not even for a minute. And besides, if the idea is to lure Filapiano out to me somehow, how's that gonna help? Wouldn't that just make him sit back and rest on his laurels somewhere?"

"I figured he'd show up at the press conference," Harper answered, "just to see what you had to say. Hopefully we could catch him there. But, I'll tell you the truth, I also figured if that was your statement, maybe he'd call off the attack, just in case we didn't get him. Kind of two birds with one stone type of deal."

Hardcastle shook his head. "Except McCormick ends up in the line of fire of that stone. I won't have him become collateral damage. Besides, we're supposed to be finding a way to earn him some extra points with the powers that be, not running up his tab even further."

"Then what do you suggest?" the lieutenant asked in exasperation. "Like you said, the kid doesn't really have much to bargain with. Let's face it; what he's got going for him is fast talking, fast driving, and a pretty good pair of hands. None of that's gonna help him right now."

"I know I'm a little bit of an outsider here," Doleton chimed in, "but from where I'm sitting, it seems like McCormick might actually have one other fairly marketable commodity, at least in certain circles."

Two sets of eyes turned her way. "What's that?" Hardcastle asked.

"Access to you," she told him. "Your trust. In fact, the one thing Filapiano was trying to take."

"What are you suggesting?" Harper prodded.

She shrugged slightly. "I'm not even sure, exactly. I just can't believe there's not a way to use that. Filapiano wants you, Milt, and McCormick could deliver you. You just need to find a way to put it together."

"Use Mark to set up a meet?" Harper wasn't convinced. "Like he was selling Milt out?"

"Why not?" Doleton asked.

It was Hardcastle who answered, tone bristling with anger again. "Because he wouldn't. Why do you think we're in this mess?"

"Oh, come on, Milt. I'm sure he's a good kid, but are you telling me he doesn't have a price?"

"If he does," Harper broke in quickly, "it's a safe bet that Filapiano can't afford it. I think that's been made pretty clear."

"But he doesn't know that," Doleton insisted. She looked at the judge sincerely. "Quit being so defensive for just a minute and think this through. If you can find a way to make Filapiano believe it, then McCormick can set him up for you. The feds wouldn't have a leg to stand on then; they'd have to cut him loose. So think, Milt; what would it take? What would break him?"

Harper was beginning to see the possibilities, but he could tell by the way Hardcastle's spine was rigid, his head shaking continuously, though almost imperceptibly, that the judge wasn't buying into any of it. "It doesn't have to _be_ true, Milt," he said reassuringly, "it only has to _sound_ true. And someone like Filapiano, he's gonna believe that everyone has a price. Hell, he thought twelve thousand dollars could buy the kid." He thought for a few minutes, then ventured a quiet suggestion.

"I think I have the answer." He was relieved to see that Hardcastle looked interested, despite himself. He took a breath. "It would have to be you. You're his anchor, Milt, the thing that's keeping him where he belongs. It's what we were just talking about—your faith. If he lost that, he'd lose an awful lot. Personally, I think he'd probably fall off the straight and narrow, even though I don't believe there's anything that could ever make him literally turn on you. But Filapiano won't know that. And we already know he's making bad decisions. He should never have stayed in town; that was sloppy. He must want you pretty bad. He'll be willing to believe anything even close to real."

"That's it?" Hardcastle asked. "That's your grand idea? We're just gonna have McCormick call him up, tell him I decided he was no good, and expect him to believe the kid's gonna set me up just like that?"

"That's the nutshell version, yeah," Frank replied. "Mark'll flesh it out; he's good at that sort of thing. He'll make it work. Anyway, worst that can happen is Filapiano won't bite, and we won't be any worse off than we are now."

Pressing his palms on his knees, Hardcastle leaned back against his chair, gazing directly across the desk. "You've only forgotten one thing. He's not gonna want to do it."

"He's not gonna want to spend the next twenty years in a federal prison, either," Harper said. "He'll do it."

00000

"You're out of your mind!" McCormick declared. "I'm not gonna do _that_!"

"You have to do it," Harper coaxed, though his coaxing stayed pretty firm. He hoped that McCormick would get the idea that bringing him back here to the interrogation room—with the federal agents in attendance—meant they really needed him to go along. Then he added, "It's the best chance we have of making it work." He deliberately ignored the judge's 'I told you so' smirk.

"Unless there's a reason you don't want it to work?" Agent Walsh challenged.

"A reason I wouldn't want to lure a homicidal maniac to a secluded spot alone with the person he's trying to blow away? I can't imagine what that would be."

Frank worked to control his own smirk. This probably wasn't the time to be amused by the kid's smart lip. "He wouldn't be alone," he reassured McCormick. "We'd have everything locked down tight; it would be completely safe."

McCormick simply cast a piercing blue gaze across the table, and Harper had the decency to backpedal slightly. "Okay. It would be as safe as we could possibly make it. Which is pretty damn safe, by the way."

"Of course," Agent Carruthers added in, "we'd be taking point on the detail, so there would be an entire contingency of federal agents on site, in addition to whatever local officers were covering. Judge Hardcastle would have plenty of protection."

"And I suppose _they're_ here," Mark said sharply, jabbing a finger toward the agents, "to remind me of the consequences of not cooperating?"

Harper grimaced just a little. He'd wanted McCormick to understand it was important; he hadn't actually wanted him to feel _threatened_. There had been far too much of that going on lately. Surprisingly, it was Walsh who answered.

"Actually, McCormick, we're here to remind you of the _benefits_ if you _do_ cooperate. Things can't really get much worse for you if you decide not to. But if you can help us grab Filapiano, maybe we can make these charges go away."

McCormick arched an eyebrow. "You still don't get it, do you?" he asked the agent. "I'm not interested in saving my life at the expense of his. You want to set him up as bait for some guy that's been carrying a grudge for a couple of decades now. That seems a little crazy to me. Better just to keep him protected until you guys can do your job and find Filapiano and lock him up. And besides—"

"Besides what?" Frank prompted when it became clear Mark wasn't going to offer anything more.

The young man gave a small shrug. "I was just gonna say, I don't think he'd believe me anyway." Harper thought the subdued tone carried an undercurrent of apprehension as McCormick looked over at Hardcastle.

"Well, that's kind of what I said, too," the older man told him, "though I suppose if anyone can spin that, it'd be you."

"I suppose," Mark said slowly, though he didn't look like that was the answer he'd hoped to receive. "But I still don't think he'll fall for it." He seemed very insistent.

"It's possible that he'd _want_ to fall for it," Hardcastle suggested. "He worked awful hard to make it true." Then the man paused and looked directly into the eyes of his young friend. "But you don't have enough scam in you to convince _me_."

And then, though the ex-con didn't quite smile, there was a definite air of relief that came over him, and that's when Harper understood. There had never been any fear that his cover story wouldn't be believed, but rather that it would. He just shook his head as the two unlikely friends continued their dance.

"Well, I'm glad you've got at least that much sense, Hardcase," McCormick was saying, "but I still don't like it. The man wants to kill you, Judge, and you want me to just invite him out somewhere to take his best shot at it. I don't like it all."

"And I don't like the idea of having to go to all the trouble of finding a new Tonto just because you're too stubborn to do things our way and end up spending your life in the federal pokey."

"You'll get me off," Mark said confidently.

"You understand the idea of an affirmative defense, kiddo?" Hardcastle asked, his voice taking on a slightly lecturing tone. "It means we gotta stand up in court and _admit_ that you broke the law, and then prove that you had a damn good reason for doing it. The burden is all ours. And that would've been hard to do, even if Filapiano had actually grabbed me; as it stands, it's gonna be almost impossible. I'd sure as hell give it my best shot, but it isn't our only shot anymore."

McCormick's eyes traveled from the judge to Harper to the feds, examining them all, then finally came back to rest on Hardcastle. "You think no one's going to believe an ex-con could be held hostage by a threat to a judge," he accused.

Harper found himself watching the judge wince at the bitter pain in the kid's question, and wondered how Hardcastle would handle it. He should've known the man would opt for the simple truth.

"Not any ex-con," Hardcastle began, "and not any judge. You and me. I'm the guy who sent you up; the one you've been known to complain about—loudly—to just about anybody that would listen. That makes for a lot of witnesses. So, yeah, I think it might be kinda hard for your average jury to wrap their minds around the idea that you were forced into criminal activity against your will out of concern for me."

"But what about Costa? He'll testify, right?"

"Yeah, and that'll help. But then the prosecutor will point out that he got some leniency on charges in exchange for that testimony, and all of a sudden, the unvarnished truth starts looking a little bit suspicious.

"I'm tellin' you, kid, this is our best shot, and I want you to do it."

McCormick hesitated for another long moment. Finally he asked, "Can I be there?"

And though Harper thought all their reasons were probably different, four voices immediately spoke up, in complete agreement. "No."

McCormick seemed taken aback by the sudden solidarity, though it was Hardcastle he lashed out at. "Now you're on their side?"

"He doesn't really have a say," Frank interjected, before the judge could be drawn into an argument, "but I'm sure we'd all agree it's safer for you to not be in attendance."

"And you are still in custody," Carruthers pointed out, not unkindly. "You're really not in the best position to be participating in any kind of operation."

Mark sniffed. "I'm in custody on bogus charges," he told the agent. "Even you guys have figured that out by now, but you're just jerking me around on general principle and hoping you can get something out of it." He gave his head a single shake and turned his attention back to the judge.

"This is really what you want to do?"

Hardcastle nodded. "It really is for the best, kiddo. It helps you and it gives us our best chance at nailing Filapiano. It's a win-win."

McCormick still didn't seem entirely convinced, but at last he dragged a hand through his hair and blew out a noisy, resigned sigh. "So what's the plan?"

00000

It had taken a while to get the technical side arranged. First, they had to have a phone and recorder brought into the conference room. After that, having McCormick's gatehouse phone number forwarded to the line at the station hadn't been difficult, but they'd wanted to ensure that it didn't _appear_ to be forwarded, just in case someone had the ability to check that sort of thing. But a little finagling with the phone company, and all was well on that front.

Walsh had taken point on working with McCormick to spell out the particulars of the cover story being used, as the agent seemed to think that everyone else involved was inclined to go too easy on the kid, and wouldn't recognize a double-cross if it happened right in front of them. McCormick had rolled his eyes, but he'd heeded the sharp look from Hardcastle and kept any smart comments to himself. And by the time they were done, the ex-con thought the fed might've actually gotten the idea that no one was more interested in making sure that this operation went without a hitch.

But by the time everything was in place, the agents thought that it was too late in the day to attempt contact with Filapiano; they should wait until the next morning. McCormick had made the argument that nothing was going to give them away quicker than trying to stick to a nine to five schedule, though, in truth, it was well past five already. But finally Harper had reminded everyone that the number they were calling was only a message phone; the odds of connecting with Filapiano today were probably slim. Better to get the ball rolling, since they didn't know what kind of timeframe they'd be dealing with. That had convinced even Walsh, and Mark had dialed the phone, then left a simple message. 'This is McCormick. I'm out, and we should talk.' They all thought that should definitely get the ball rolling.

They'd all stayed in the conference room after that, hoping to get a response quickly, even though they knew it wasn't likely. Pizza had been sent for when McCormick had reminded them that he wasn't allowed to leave, and they had been occupying his time during scheduled meals. But several hours later, they were ready to admit no return phone call seemed immediately forthcoming and call it a night. Then two cots were brought in, so McCormick and one of them could spend the night within earshot of the phone. "It would've been easier," Mark told them peevishly, "to let me out and actually do all this at the gatehouse."

"But then we wouldn't get to have this little camp out," Walsh responded.

McCormick just shook his head slightly and threw a silently appealing look toward Hardcastle.

"You know, Agent Walsh," Hardcastle began, "I could take the overnight shift. Filapiano isn't likely to call, anyway, and the kid is my client. Least I could do is help out. Everyone's contact numbers are right there by the phone. Wouldn't be a problem at all."

But Walsh wasn't biting, though the long day seemed to have erased some of his earlier resentment. "That's okay, Judge; I'll take the shift. Besides, no offense, but it really should be handled by an officer."

Hardcastle winced slightly, but McCormick knew there wasn't really an argument to that. Might as well let this one go. "You should go anyway, Hardcase," he said, sending the message to the judge. "If we get lucky, you've got a date tomorrow with a homicidal maniac. You should be well rested for that."

Hardcastle smiled slightly as he got to his feet. "You could be right about that. You get some rest, too." He motioned to Harper. "C'mon, Frank; let's go round up a car to babysit me tonight."

"Actually," Harper told him, stretching as he rose, "Coltrane has requested to be able to see this one through, so he'll be with you again tonight. But I think I'll drive you and he can follow; an extra pair of eyes never hurt."

"That's a good idea," Carruthers commented, following the others toward the door. "We should consider the possibility that Filapiano has already received the message and simply not called back. If so, he's gotta be wondering exactly what's going on, and that uncertainty might make him more likely to strike out at Hardcastle again."

"That's a cheery thought," McCormick called after them. "Frank, you keep an eye on the donkey, ya hear me?"

And as the door closed on the calm replies and general assurances, McCormick let out a small sigh and lowered his forehead toward the tabletop, resting on his folded arms. "I'll be glad when this is over," he muttered.

There was a long silence from the other man, but then Walsh finally said, "You know, I still haven't figured out your game. But I will."

McCormick didn't look up. "That's because it's not a game, Agent, but I've quit worrying about whether or not you're going to figure that out. Whatever happens, I just need to get Filapiano out of circulation. Beyond that . . . well, honestly, anything beyond that is just gravy."

"Even if you don't get out?" Walsh asked quizzically.

"Even if," McCormick said flatly, then he let the silence stretch out.

00000

The phone was beginning its third ring before McCormick recognized it for what it was, though maybe it was the federal agent shouting his name that truly got his attention. He shook his head roughly as he rolled off the cot, silently cursing himself for picking tonight to actually fall asleep.

Walsh already had his headphones in place to listen in on the conversation, and the tape recorder was running by the time McCormick grabbed the receiver off the hook. He didn't try to hide his exhaustion; it was the middle of the night, after all. "Yeah, what?" he growled into the phone.

"Did I wake you, McCormick?" There was a slimy chuckle from the other end of the line.

"Who is this?"

The tone went a little harsher. "You called me, McCormick."

"Filapiano?" McCormick tried to sound suspicious.

"What is it that we need to talk about?"

Mark rubbed at his eyes. "Ah, what we need to talk about is Hardcastle, your plans for him, and my future."

"I thought your future was going to be pretty well taken care of; you didn't keep your end of the bargain."

"I did," McCormick contradicted angrily. "I turned myself in; I confessed. It's your boy, Randall, or Costa, or whatever his name is, that caused the problems. I guess he didn't like bein' set up as the second patsy."

Another short chuckle, though this one had an angry edge to it. "You don't expect me to believe that?"

"Believe it or don't, but I figured a guy like you woulda been keeping up on things. I was locked up for almost a friggin' week—right up until the time your guy got picked up. He's the one doing all the talking; hell, he's the one that got me sprung. Where the hell do you think I got your number, anyway?" McCormick figured with a guy like Filapiano, it was never too early to go on the offensive.

And that seemed to stop the ex-cop for a moment, but then the tone was even more suspicious. "How _did_ you get it? They wouldn't've let you two talk alone."

"Alone? Hell, no. And he didn't give it to me, anyway. He gave it to the cops; I just happened to be around. He's trying to serve you up to cut a deal. So let me give you a tip; I wouldn't be returning any phone calls for a while."

"And why are you so eager to help me out all of a sudden?"

"Does it matter?" McCormick spat out.

"Ah . . ." Suddenly Filapiano seemed to put it together. "Something happened, huh? You figured out Hardcastle isn't quite the patron saint you've been thinking, didn't you? Well, I thought it would be the other way around, but this works for me, too."

"Let's see if it still works for you when you hear what I want."

"And why should I care what you want?"

"Because I can give you what _you_ want," McCormick told him. "I can give you Hardcastle."

And then, without warning, the line went dead.

"What the hell?" McCormick said, as he slammed down the phone.

But Walsh was unruffled. "He's dodging a trace," he explained calmly. "Don't worry; I think you've got his attention. He'll call back."

It took just over a minute for the phone to ring again, but McCormick thought the time stretched forever. He let the second ring begin before he picked up the phone. "Yeah?"

"Now about what I want," Filapiano said from the other end, as if there had been no break in the conversation.

But McCormick wasn't letting it slide. "What the hell kind of game are you playing?" he demanded.

"That's what I'm wondering about you. I'm willing to talk with you until I can figure it out, but I'm not willing to be stupid about it, so we'll do things my way. Now, you said something about delivering Hardcastle?"

"Yeah," McCormick conceded without further argument, "I can do that."

"You know I don't want to invite him over for Sunday dinner," Filapiano said.

"Yeah, that much I got, but to tell you the truth, what you do with him is of no concern to me. I tried to do things his way; I was even willing to go to prison, if that's what it took, but no more. The man's a jackass, and the sooner I can get out from under his boot heel, the better off I'll be. And right now seems like the perfect opportunity; the one time no one's gonna suspect me if something happens to him."

"So what did he do?" Filapiano asked.

"You wouldn't understand," McCormick said.

"You ought to try me," the cop instructed firmly, "because I'm having a hard time understanding how things changed so drastically in a week. You were sure willing to do a lot to protect him just a few days ago."

McCormick threw a triumphant smirk over at the agent. True, Filapiano wasn't being particularly forthcoming, but McCormick thought that had still been pretty damn clear. Then he got back to business. "Yeah," he answered bitterly, "I woulda done just about anything. But that was before I found out what he really thinks about me. You know, I came back here, just like you said, and I told them my story. I was ready to take the fall completely. But I never expected him to actually believe I was guilty. Convict me? Sure. You set me up pretty well. But _believe_ it? Damn. I've been bustin' my ass for six months for that guy. I would've died for him. And he gives me some lecture about 'how could you?' and 'I should've known from the beginning you weren't any different than the others'. He never once even asked me why; he was just ready to believe that I'd sold him out for the cash."

McCormick sucked in a breath. "Well, if that's what he thinks, fine. That's what made me think that maybe you and I could work a deal. I know you want him, and I know you already botched the job once. And it's not gonna get any easier with 'round the clock protection like he's had the past few days."

"What are you suggesting?" Filapiano asked.

"I can give you a place and a time," Mark answered. "No protection. He'd be a sitting duck, for the person who knew when and where."

"And what do you get?"

"Besides a great deal of satisfaction? Cash to get out."

"You got your share," Filapiano reminded him.

"My _share_," McCormick said coldly. "Don't insult me. I know how much we took outta that safe, Filapiano, and I know my share and Costa's combined didn't come anywhere close to half. I did the work; you need to cough up. Hell, I already earned it; word on Hardcastle is practically a freebie."

"And what if I agreed with you on that? How much are you looking for in return for this 'freebie'?"

"Probably not as much as you think," McCormick told him. "Twenty thousand should get me started somewhere else quite nicely."

"Twenty?" Apparently Filapiano didn't consider that much of a bargain price. "You need to rethink your usefulness." And then there was another click.

McCormick wasn't surprised this time, as he hung up the phone to wait. After a few seconds, he looked at Walsh and declared, "I'm gonna offer to meet him."

"The hell you are!" the agent sputtered, eyes wide with surprise. "I'll pull the plug on this little stunt of yours so fast it'll make your head spin."

The ex-con was unworried. "Oh, relax, Walsh. He's not gonna take me up on it."

"What if—"

The phone rang, and McCormick grabbed it on the first ring, cutting off the fed's comments. "You know," he greeted, "I could meet you somewhere and we could stop this game with the phone." He ignored the glare from Walsh.

"I told you we'd do this my way," Filapiano responded, "and I'm not interested in seeing you."

"Your choice," McCormick said dismissively. "Now what about my twenty grand?"

"Too much," Filapiano said flatly. "I would consider half that."

"It isn't negotiable," McCormick answered just as flatly. "That's the price."

"The price of betrayal, eh?" Filapiano sounded pleased with the idea.

"Call it whatever you like; that's the deal."

"It's not a price I'll pay, McCormick."

"Then we're done. Good luck on your own." Without another word, McCormick hung up the phone, then crossed back to his cot, stretched out, and closed his eyes.

There was a moment of stunned silence before Walsh managed to ask, "What the hell are you doing?"

"Resting," McCormick said calmly, eyes still closed. "It'll take him a while to call back."

Walsh dragged a chair noisily away from the table, then dropped into it. "You're awfully sure of yourself," he commented.

"Yep." Mark still didn't look at the other man. "There's not a lot that I know better than scams."

"I believe that."

McCormick smiled slightly, then rolled over, propping himself on an elbow to gaze across the room. "You've got sort of a one track mind, don't ya? I mean, you just don't get the idea that I really am on the level here."

"I am prepared to believe that you weren't a willing participant in the robbery," Walsh allowed. "I _don't_ think I'm ready to believe that you don't have some sort of agenda somewhere."

McCormick shook his head and lay back down. "Then I guess it's lucky you're not the one I have to convince."

Almost twenty minutes of silence passed before the phone rang again. McCormick rolled slowly to his feet and padded to the table, ignoring the impatient gestures from the federal agent. "Hello?"

"I want to know why you're still with him."

McCormick pretended confusion. "What? Filapiano? What're you talkin' about now? I thought we were done."

"I want to know," Filapiano said distinctly, "why you're still with him. If he thought you'd crossed over and if that's a deal breaker for you, why are you still with him?"

Dragging a hand through his hair, McCormick remained silent, waiting.

"I said," Filapiano began again, a low anger punctuating each word, "why—"

"I heard you," McCormick interrupted. "I'm just not sure why any of this is any of your business."

"Answer the question, McCormick, and maybe we'll have business together."

Mark sighed heavily. "After Costa gave his statement," he began slowly, "I thought maybe Hardcastle would . . . I don't know, admit he'd been wrong. Apologize. Something."

"Not really in his nature," Filapiano said unsympathetically. "So what did he do?"

"Hell. He acted like nothing had happened. Just said, 'lucky it worked out, kid; let's go home.' I told him he was crazy; there was no way I was just gonna pick up like nothing had changed, not after what he'd said and the way he'd been. Told him we needed to get a few things straight if we were gonna keep working together. Hah. He set me straight, all right. He said the feds might be ready to cut me loose, but that I should remember who made the final decisions about my freedom. He gave me two choices: I could work for him or he could pull my ticket. Shit."

McCormick shook his head and let some misery creep into his voice. "Like he'd completely forgotten I'd been willing to sacrifice everything just to protect him; that didn't matter at all. It was either go back to being his underpaid yard boy or go back to Quentin." He took a breath. "That deal didn't sound a whole lot better than it had the first time around, but it didn't really sound a whole lot worse, either. I mean, I'd just dodged a bullet over the whole bank job; I sure as hell didn't want to end up back inside for some stupid-ass parole violation. And besides," his tone turned slightly conspiratorial, "after that, it took me all of about two minutes to realize I might have a score to settle, and I sure as hell wouldn't be able to do that from inside."

"McCormick, I may have underestimated you," Filapiano said with a short chortle. "We might be able to do some business after all. But here's my condition: you don't get paid until after."

"You're out of your mind," McCormick said hotly. "You're asking for an awful lot of faith, all things considered."

"You were paid last time," Filapiano pointed out with utmost reason.

"That wasn't quite the same," Mark countered, "and you know it."

"Still, what's the worst that could happen? You'd be free of Hardcastle and no one would suspect you; isn't that what you said? You said it was a freebie."

"We both know that's not exactly what I said," McCormick said testily, "but I see your point. Still, I'm gonna need some sort of good faith payment. Something."

"I'm not going to report this conversation to the parole board," his ex-captor told him.

McCormick's voice was cold. "Don't play games, Filapiano."

By now, the click was almost expected, but it was no less annoying. McCormick sighed as he replaced the receiver, then he pulled up a chair, deciding he might as well be comfortable while he waited to spin his tale. "This is getting old," he complained.

"Can't really blame him," Walsh said. "He's afraid you might be setting him up."

Mark grinned slightly, but other than that, he was the picture of innocence. But as soon as the phone rang again, he was back in character. "I'm tired of these games," he said shortly.

"I told you we're doing this my way. But I might have a suggestion to our other problem. How about this? I'll make arrangements to have your payment delivered to La Crescenta at the same time you give me for the deal. If Hardcastle doesn't show, I'll call my courier and he won't make the drop. If everything works out, you'll get your money and an alibi all at once."

"All right," McCormick said slowly, "I guess that'll have to do." He paused for a few seconds, then added, "But after everything that's happened, don't think I wouldn't turn you in just on general principle. You'd better not double cross me."

"Where and when?" Filapiano asked, not addressing the threat.

McCormick flashed a thumbs-up over at Walsh, then did his best to sound annoyed at being out-maneuvered. "You're actually gonna get a choice," he began, "kind of a two for one deal on information. One gives you a better chance, but you'd have to be ready to move fast. The other gives you more time to plan, but you'd need it."

"I'm not interested in dragging my feet," the cop told him. "It's getting pretty hot around here. So let's do this thing."

"It's tomorrow morning," McCormick said, not letting even a hint of smugness into his tone. "Apparently, the jackass has some ritual about visiting his wife on Valentine's Day." He thought he did a pretty good imitation of derisive. "He already reamed me out for making him miss it this year, like I had any way of knowing about _that_, and like any of what's happened this week has been my fault anyway. Besides, who knew the old goat could get sentimental about anything or anybody? I woulda figured he'd be glad to be on his own, with no one to answer to but himself." McCormick winced just a little. He thought that sounded a little too close to what he really might've thought not all that long ago.

But Filapiano seemed to think the attitude made perfect sense. "Sounds to me like you know him pretty well, really. He's probably just keeping up appearances. So where's he going?"

"Woodlawn. Said he's going right after breakfast, so around eight-thirty or nine, which is why you don't have much time."

"What about his protection?"

"Uh-uh. He's already told 'em they're not goin' any farther than the cemetery gates. Said it's a personal thing and, let's see, 'they can damn well do their jobs from a distance' I think is how he put it when he discussed it with Harper."

"And you?"

"House arrest," McCormick said flatly. "And even if I wasn't, he sure as hell wouldn't take me there."

"Sounds like I'm going to be doing you quite a favor, McCormick," Filapiano commented.

"I wouldn't've thought so a week ago," the ex-con said with a touch of sadness. He took a breath. "Do you need anything else from me?"

"Not right now. I'll be in touch if this doesn't work out and we'll go to plan B. And, McCormick? I'm glad we finally found a common ground."

McCormick hung up the phone with a grimace. "Common ground," he said disgustedly. "That'll be the day."

Walsh hit the stop button on the recorder and looked over at his prisoner. "Yeah, well, I think it's a good thing Hardcastle didn't take the night watch. You probably wouldn't want him hearing some of that stuff; you're pretty convincing."

Shaking his head, McCormick said, "That's because, like Filapiano, you're eager to be convinced. That's the secret to any good scam, you know: tell people what they want to hear."

"So that's how you make it work with the judge, huh?"

Mark sighed. "I give up. Guys like me don't ever win with guys like you. But, really, I don't need you to believe me; I just need you to do your job and get him back out of there in one piece. That's the only important thing."

"You're starting to sound a little like a broken record on that front."

"Well," McCormick shrugged, "the truth has a way of being redundant."

"Maybe it does at that," Walsh conceded with a small smile. He rose from his chair, motioning for McCormick to do the same. "Come on. I've gotta round everybody up and get them back here then into position in just a few hours." He shook his head. "I really didn't think you'd be able to sell the early set-up."

"He's eager to believe," McCormick reminded him, "and he really hates the judge." He got to his feet. "And what about me?"

"Back to your cell for now. You've done your part; it's time for us to do ours."

"I'm gonna want to see Hardcastle before this thing goes down," Mark said as he followed the agent without argument.

"That's up to him," Walsh said sternly. But then the man seemed to relent slightly as he added, "But my guess is I won't even have to ask him."

00000

McCormick was pacing, though the small isolation cell didn't allow much room for releasing his pent up emotions. He had discovered almost immediately that going back to sleep was out of the question, though his best estimation was that it couldn't be much later than five o'clock even now, and he was sure he'd been back in his cell for two or three hours. Then he'd tried just sitting for a while, but even that had proven to be more than he'd been able to manage, so he'd resorted to the pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, across the small area time and again; and, every once in a while, he'd punctuate the change of direction by slapping the wall as he turned. All in all, he didn't think it was probably doing much for his state of mind—and he knew it wasn't doing much for his palms—but it was helping to pass the time. He had just pounded the wall again—choosing a fairly loud expletive to go along with the motion—when the door finally opened.

"Does that help?" Hardcastle inquired mildly.

"Not particularly," McCormick muttered, his cheeks reddening slightly as he rubbed at his hand. "But I've been going a little crazy." He looked up hopefully. "I don't suppose I could talk you into changing your mind about letting me go along?"

The judge smiled slightly. "You know I can't, kiddo. Besides, the frame of mind you're in, I'm not sure this is the best time to put you together with Filapiano."

"I'd behave," the young man promised, though there was an edge to his voice.

"You're gonna have to sit this one out, kid. But it's all coming together because of you, ya know. Walsh told me you did real good settin' the stage."

"Hah." McCormick plopped onto his cot. "I'll bet he did. You don't have to try to spin it, Judge; I know what he thinks about me."

"Well, what he thinks isn't all that important, anyway, but, for what it's worth, he really did say you handled the set-up well."

McCormick waved that off, but he found himself wondering just what Walsh really _did_ believe. He'd like to think that his freedom didn't depend at all upon the agent's opinion, but he'd been around far too much to allow himself that kind of delusion. He focused his thoughts back on the topic at hand.

"Okay, listen, that doesn't matter. I'm counting on you to play this smart. Tonto isn't gonna be around to ride shotgun, so you're gonna have to take care of yourself." Mark looked at the older man sincerely. "I want you to be careful."

Hardcastle met his gaze. "Don't worry. Frank already gave me almost the same lecture." He tapped at his chest. "I'm wired up so tight I won't be able to breathe without someone knowing it, and they even got me fitted with a bullet-proof vest. The feds are gonna have the cemetery staked out more than even you would probably have thought to do, and Frank's guys are gonna be there, too. It's gonna be fine, kiddo."

McCormick nodded as he thought it through. "Okay," he said slowly, "sounds like it'll be okay. But, hey, I've been wanting to ask you; are you okay with this whole set-up? At the cemetery, I mean?"

The judge quirked a small smile. "Kinda late to be worried about that now, don't ya think?"

"I'm serious about this, Judge."

"Me, too," Hardcastle answered. Then his smile broadened. "But I do appreciate the concern. And, yeah, I'm fine with it. Whatever it takes to catch this guy and get you out of here, that's the only thing I'm concerned about. So you sit tight, and try not to bang up on the walls too much until I get back, okay? Then, with any luck, we should be able to go home."

McCormick smiled in return. "Home, huh?" He thought that sounded better than he dared hope for, so all he said was, "Yeah, that would be great." He didn't add the caveat of he'd believe it when he saw it; no sense giving the judge anything extra to worry about right now. "You just make sure you do your part and get back. Everything else will work out after."

"It's a deal," Hardcastle told him, turning back toward the door.

McCormick found himself watching every movement as the judge crossed the small room and opened the door, filing away the images for later . . . He shook his head roughly, reminding himself that Hardcastle had been facing down bad guys long before he came along. Things were going to be fine. And then the man paused in the open door, turning to look back into the cell.

"You know, kiddo," Hardcastle began, "it's still pretty early. I think when I get home, I'm gonna try to stretch out again for an hour or so. You should try to get some rest, too."

And as he looked into the eyes of his friend, McCormick thought that probably wasn't what the older man was thinking at all, but maybe the judge was filing away images of his own. Still, he knew how to hold up his end of the deal. "Yeah, don't worry. I'm gonna be catching forty winks while you're out doing all the work, but that's what you get for not letting me go along."

Hardcastle laughed. "I'll see you later, kid," he said, and then he was gone, leaving Mark to stare at the locked door and pray that the images in his mind wouldn't be the last.

Mustering every ounce of willpower he had, McCormick forced himself not to start the pacing just yet.

**Chapter 8**

Hardcastle rolled into a seated position, then sat at the edge of the bed, gazing sightlessly at his bedroom. When he'd told McCormick he was going to rest for a while, he'd only been making conversation, delaying the inevitable moment when he was going to have to leave the kid locked alone in that infernal cell. And, by extension, delaying the moment when he was simply going to have to leave alone. It wasn't something he liked to dwell on, but in the short time the ex-con had been in residence, he had somehow stopped thinking of himself as alone. He didn't know how that had happened; wasn't even sure _when_ it had happened, and he sure couldn't be expected to understand _why_; but it was most definitely true, just the same. But now, in the space of one short week, everything was on the verge of falling apart. So, rather than sit and think those sorts of thoughts, he'd simply done as he'd said and grabbed a bit of shuteye.

And besides that, in addition to his permanent shadow, Coltrane, and the other black and white unit stationed outside his home, there was one federal agent downstairs. Mead was his name, and while he had seemed like a perfectly nice guy, he had also seemed like the sort who intended to make non-stop conversation right up until the moment they walked out the door to go bust Filapiano. Hardcastle hadn't been in the mood for that, either. All in all, sleep had been a welcome recourse. But now it was after eight and time to stop hiding. He was going to nail Don Filapiano once and for all, get McCormick out of jail and back home where he belonged, and get things back to normal again. He pushed himself off the bed with a decisiveness that anyone who knew him would've recognized.

00000

Hardcastle steered the Corvette along the familiar route, his attention focused not on the usual surroundings, but on anything that might be _unusual_. They had discussed the fact that since Filapiano knew where he was going, it wouldn't be necessary to actually carry out the hit at the cemetery; he could be taken out anywhere along the route. But there wasn't much that could be done about that, other than be alert. Coltrane was on his tail at a very non-discreet distance, and Mead—who Hardcastle was convinced must've just barely met the bureau height requirements—was folded up on the passenger floorboard with a jacket thrown unceremoniously on top of him. And they had put the top up on the 'Vette. The judge was convinced there was nothing else that could be done. Besides, he was of the opinion that after everything that had happened, Filapiano would probably like to do the job face to face; he was convinced there was gloating to come. In fact, he was counting on it.

He turned off of Pico onto Fourteenth, checked the mirror to ensure Coltrane had made the turn as well, then proceeded up the street toward the entrance. He pulled in past the simple wooden sign, stopping just inside the grounds. Coltrane pulled in behind him, parking the patrol car out of the way of traffic but still conspicuously. The judge got out of his car briefly, made a show of telling the officer to stay put, then continued on toward his family gravesite alone. He parked at the bottom of a small hill, and then, taking care not to look around too overtly, he grabbed the single rose from his front seat and climbed out of the car.

As he trudged through the grass still damp from morning dew, Hardcastle could feel his shoulders tensing, and a tingle in his spine. He decided then that he should've really pushed to find a way to get McCormick included in this operation. True, the kid might be a little too personally involved to be strictly by the book, but this was a bad time to realize that there was no one he trusted more to watch his back when things really got tough. And with a renegade ex-cop waiting somewhere in the shadows to take his head off, things were likely to get pretty tough.

He had reached the family plot, and, sending up a quick, silent prayer for forgiveness for bringing business here, he approached Nancy's tombstone. He knelt down, and placed the rose at the head of her grave. "Hey, Nance," he said softly, "sorry I'm late. I had something come up this week that I had to deal with. That kid I told you about before, McCormick? Well, he got into some trouble. Anyway—"

"I would imagine," interrupted a voice, "that kid McCormick is always getting into trouble."

Hardcastle didn't rise, though his hand moved instinctively toward his shoulder holster, but the voice behind him was stern. "I wouldn't."

"Filapiano," the judge said, still kneeling, "what the hell do you want?'

"Oh, I think you know what I want, Hardcastle. But I've got something to tell you first, and I want to see your face, so stand up slowly and turn around. No sudden moves, okay? It wouldn't be quite as much fun to shoot you in the back, but I'd do it."

Hardcastle rose slowly, keeping his hands slightly away from his body, then turned to face the ex-cop, who had stepped out from behind two poplar trees. "You know there're an awful lot of people looking for you."

"Yeah, I think I'm gonna have to leave town today. Too bad, really. I've always kinda liked it here."

Hardcastle shook his head, looking at the automatic weapon leveled at his chest, noting the attached silencer. "What happened to you, Filapiano? Don't you ever wish you could go back to just being a cop? One of the good guys? Look at you. You've lost your badge; got felony conspiracy charges hanging over you; and you robbed a bank? And now what? Cold-blooded murder? You really have that in you? Is this really the way you want to be remembered?"

"Don't start talking to me about all that white hat crap, Hardcastle," Filapiano sneered. "You don't even understand what things are really like. I was trying to make a difference; trying to be one of the good guys. I was cleaning up the streets. But you had to bring your trained convict around and start nosing into things and screwed up everything. What I was doing was a good thing."

"What you were doing was getting people killed!" Hardcastle almost shouted. "You figure that's okay as long as it's the criminals who're getting knocked off? Well, that's where you're wrong. There are other ways. And besides, how do you justify last week? How does bank robbery fit into your defense of cleaning up the streets?"

"It might not've helped much," Filapiano allowed, "but I always intended my two 'partners' end up in jail. They're career criminals, Hardcastle; they don't belong on the streets." He frowned suddenly. "And they sure as hell don't have any business trying to help enforce the laws that they've spent a lifetime breaking."

The judge arched an eyebrow. "McCormick? Is that why you went after him?"

Filapiano shifted slightly, waving the gun in Hardcastle's direction. "Nah. That was because of you. He's important to you; you told me that. I wanted to take that from you the way you took my career from me."

Hardcastle grimaced as the guilt swept over him again; he didn't like hearing it spelled out so succinctly. "Too bad it didn't work out for you," he said sarcastically, but his eyes began sweeping the cemetery. He thought the feds should've heard enough by now. Time to move in and take this guy down.

"Oh, it worked more than you know," Filapiano told him smugly, and Hardcastle just waited for him to continue. "Did he tell you he only cooperated to protect you? He really thought your life was in danger, you know." He flashed a toothy smile. "Still, I didn't really think he'd turn himself in; I thought he'd run for sure. Lucky for me he didn't."

"How do you figure?" Hardcastle demanded. "He's the one who led us to Costa, who led us to you. What's lucky about that?"

"Because you lost your pet along the way, Hardcase, and you don't even know it yet. Showed your true colors, didn't you? Accused him of being in it for the money? I bet that didn't go over too well."

Hardcastle's eyes narrowed. "How do you know about that?"

Filapiano grinned and took a step closer to his target; Hardcastle was glad to see him moving away from the trees. "Because he told me," he gloated. "He was pissed. Said he never expected you to believe he was guilty. I guess he fell for the idea that he was important to you, too. But you sure managed to convince him otherwise real quick. You've always had a real way with people, Hardcastle."

"He told you this _when_?" Hardcastle asked dangerously, taking a step backward, hoping to lure the other man further out into the open. He wasn't sure where his backup was stationed, but a clear shot might be necessary at some point.

Filapiano was almost giddy with glee when he delivered the news. "When he called to arrange your murder."

Hardcastle stared, doing his best to look stunned. "When . . . _what_?"

"He sold you out, Hardcastle. How do you think I knew you'd be here this morning?"

"You could've followed me," the jurist supplied a weak explanation.

"You know better, you just don't want to admit it." Filapiano took another step closer. "And it didn't even cost me much," he added, rubbing it in. "Twenty thousand. You know the kind of money we took out of that bank, but he sold you out for only twenty grand. You blew it, Hardcastle. A week ago that kid would've sold his soul for you, and now . . . But at least you're going to die close to your family." He tightened his grip on the gun.

"Filapiano," Hardcastle said quickly, "you don't want to do this. Right now, you're only looking at jail time; don't step this up to a capital case." He was backing away, still looking for signs of the other officers. "You said you wanted to leave town; do it now, while you still can. You pull that trigger and people will never stop looking for you."

"That's a chance I'll take," Filapiano told him, his voice suddenly cold as he brought the weapon to bear.

And finally, another voice rang out. "Hold it! FBI! Drop your weapon!" Suddenly, the small glade was surrounded by a dozen officers, with Walsh and Harper in the lead.

Filapiano looked around frantically, but he didn't lower his weapon. "A set-up?" he asked disbelievingly.

"I said, drop your weapon!" Walsh repeated, as the circle tightened around the gravesite.

"I guess I didn't lose him after all," Hardcastle told him, unable to keep a certain amount of smugness out of his own tone.

The cop looked at the approaching band of officers, then seemed to reach a decision. "You both lose."

And just as just as Filapiano pulled the trigger, Hardcastle threw himself backward to the ground, unable to distinguish the number of shots that rang out.

00000

"Milt! Can you hear me?" Harper spoke urgently to his friend. The judge's pulse was strong, and a quick search had shown that the vest did its job and stopped the one bullet Filapiano had managed to fire; he was hoping this was nothing more drastic than Hardcastle having the wind knocked out of him. He tapped lightly on the man's cheek. "Milt!"

"Uhhhh," Hardcastle grunted. "What?" He tried to sit up. "What happened?"

"Hang on, Milt," Harper kept a gentle hand on the older man's shoulder. "How do you feel?"

Resting on his elbows, the judge seemed to be taking stock and considering the answer carefully. "Well, sort of like a Mack truck ran me down," he said ruefully, "but other than that, okay, I guess."

Harper chuckled. "Okay, good. Then let me help you up." He pulled the older man to his feet, keeping a hand on his arm until he was certain the judge was steady.

Hardcastle's eyes tracked over the area, coming to a rest on a sheet-covered form. "He didn't make it?"

Harper shook his head.

"That's not the way I wanted it," the jurist said.

"His choice," the detective said flatly. He steered the older man back toward the waiting 'Vette. "Let me drive you to the station; Mark's gonna be going crazy until he sees you." He opened the passenger door. "Besides," he added with a grin, "it'll give me a chance to drive this thing."

Hardcastle grinned back at him, and didn't argue the point as he slipped into the passenger seat. Then he seemed to remember something. "Hey!" he said, slapping at his chest. "What about the wire? Did you guys get it all?"

"Yeah," Harper smiled. "Walsh already pulled the stuff off you when we were making sure you weren't dead, but the guys in the van said it was picking up great."

"Okay," Hardcastle sighed, resting his head against the seat, "good. Then let's go."

Harper started the car and had just put it into gear when Walsh came jogging down the path. "Hey, Hardcastle, hold up."

The judge raised up and looked over at the agent. "Agent Walsh?"

"I'm glad you're feeling okay," the agent began. "Even with a vest, taking a shot like that can pack quite a punch."

"Yeah. I'll probably be sore for a while, but I'll be fine."

"Good, good." Walsh hesitated, seeming unsure of what he wanted to say next. Finally he just blurted, "So, you gonna go take your boy home now?"

Hardcastle seemed surprised. "Ah, I hope so, but . . ."

"I already put in a call to Griggs," Walsh added. "The federal charges will be dropped by the time you get there. I figure you can probably handle the local side."

The judge smiled and extended his hand out the window. "Thank you, Agent Walsh. I appreciate all your help."

Walsh took the offered hand. "You're welcome. And listen; tell McCormick that sometimes guys like him do win, even with guys like me."

"I will," Hardcastle answered. "And thanks again." He looked over at Harper. "Let's go get the kid."

00000

McCormick had tried, he really had, to do as he'd promised and get some rest. But when you figured in the idea that he'd already gotten a couple hours sleep earlier in the conference room, combined with the fact that sleeping in a cell was always a difficult thing, well, keeping that particular promise today had become something of a losing proposition. And, he could also admit—as long as no one forced him to say it aloud—that the greater problem was the movie reel of disastrous scenarios that had played out in his head since Hardcastle had walked out of the cell. It was like trying to sleep after a marathon of horror films.

And it wasn't enough that he couldn't shake the image of Hardcastle lying in a bloody heap atop his wife's grave; the next problem was that he realized he'd been far too cavalier about the idea of securing his own freedom in the event something should happen to the judge. Not that being in prison would've particularly mattered, but somewhere in the intervening hours it had occurred to him that if he never gained his freedom, he'd never be able to avenge Hardcastle, and that would be out of the question. Yeah, all things considered, he thought it was pretty easy to see why sleep had eluded him.

On the other hand, he was also perfectly prepared to take the virtuous high road if—_when_, _when_, he corrected himself silently—when Hardcastle came strolling back through the door and he could point out that he hadn't resorted to pacing the floor even once. Yet.

He sighed and leaned back against the wall, hugging his knees tighter to his chest, and determined that he could be stronger than his fears.

He didn't know how long he sat there, forcing himself not to move, though he thought he'd come up with a pretty good escape plan—if push came to shove—all centered around the certainty that Frank would spring him at least long enough to attend Hardcastle's funeral. But finally, he heard the cell door being unlocked.

Still he didn't move from his cot, just raised his eyes to the figure coming through the door, and he was certain that his heart must actually have stopped when he saw Harper step into the cell. But before he could even find the courage to phrase the question, Hardcastle was there, and McCormick felt the relief flood over him. "Judge." That was all he said, but he was sure Hardcastle probably recognized every emotion in the single word.

"It's over, kiddo," Hardcastle said gently, offering immediate reassurance. "It worked; we got him."

McCormick examined his face, also hearing words that weren't being spoken. He finally moved, scooting to the edge of the cot and leaning forward to look intently at the older man. "So he's in custody now?"

The hesitation was brief, but noticeable, almost as if Hardcastle was weighing his options, trying to decide on the importance of the question. But then, as McCormick had known that he would, he opted for the truth. "No, he's not in custody. But it's over."

"Oh." McCormick thought about that for a moment. "That's not exactly what I had in mind." He thought a little longer. "But I don't think I can honestly say that I'm sorry." Then he frowned slightly. "I mean—"

"I know what you mean, kiddo," Hardcastle interrupted. "It's okay. He made his choices."

"Don't we all?" Mark shook his head once. "I'm just glad you're okay." He glanced at Harper for confirmation. "Everything did go okay?"

The lieutenant smiled. "It's fine. Filapiano got off one shot, but the vest did its job. He might be a little sore for a while, but nothing to worry about."

"You weren't gonna tell me that part, I guess?" McCormick accused the judge.

Hardcastle shrugged. "You worry too much," he said lightly.

McCormick grinned at the tone—the judge's way of putting all the bad stuff away. "Yeah, well, I'm over that," he answered in kind, dusting his hands together. "You can take care of yourself from now on; nothing but trouble for me, anyway—just ask Frank." And then he remembered the very real trouble he was still in. He sobered quickly.

"Hey, did Filapiano . . . I mean, before he—well, did he say anything . . . _helpful_?"

"I was beginning to think you weren't even gonna ask," Hardcastle said with a small smile. He pointed at Harper. "Frank's here in an official capacity this time around."

Mark swallowed as he looked back at the detective, though he supposed neither man _looked_ like they had bad news. Still, wouldn't do to get his hopes up. "Yeah? Well at this point, I seriously think I've told you guys everything I know, and unless you've got a torture chamber here I don't know about, I don't think there's anyplace deeper you can stick me."

"Nah," Frank grinned at him, "we're not allowed to use the torture chamber anymore. But I am here as an escort. Gotta make sure you get outta here, since the guards usually frown on defense attorneys removing clients from custody."

McCormick got slowly to his feet, not fully aware he was moving, any more than he was aware of the grin that was beginning to creep across his face. "Out?" he asked, trying to be sure. "Like out of the cell and back to the interrogation room out? Or like here comes the cheeseburger with everything, large fries, and triple thick chocolate fudge shake out?"

Hardcastle laughed. "It might be a little early for Burger Man, but I told you it was over, McCormick. Out means out. The feds have dropped their charges, finally understanding that your duress defense isn't just a defense, but the truth. Frank and I took care of all the local stuff; the DA wasn't too worked up, anyway. They'd already assumed they weren't gonna have to be involved in this one, and once the US Attorney dropped it, the DA didn't see any reason to pick it up. And I talked to John Dalem, who's gonna make sure everything stays smooth with the parole board. It really is over, kiddo, and it's time to go home."

Finally feeling the truth of it all, McCormick laughed and clapped his hands together. "Then what are we waiting for? Let's get out of here."

00000

Being processed out never takes as long as being processed in; sign a couple sheets of paper, get your clothes and your personal effects, and it's done. But even so, it was almost eleven by the time Hardcastle walked out of the station with his newly-vindicated client, and he had gladly given in to the argument that eleven was almost twelve, and twelve was the perfect time for Burger Man.

Now they were headed home down the PCH, top lowered again on the 'Vette, with Mark happily eating fries from a paper sack and sucking on a triple thick chocolate fudge shake, watching the passing scenery. Hardcastle sort of hated to break the mood, but there was something that had been bothering him about this case from the beginning, and it had to be said. He cleared his throat and began.

"I think there's something we need to get straight, McCormick."

The earnest tone seemed to get Mark's attention right away. He turned from his appreciation of the early wildflowers, and raised an eyebrow. "If it's a lecture on not robbing any more banks, Judge, trust me; I learned my lesson."

"Not exactly. More like a lecture on needing to know that I can trust you to make the right decisions."

McCormick's face was set as he answered, "Given the information I had . . ." He paused, tried again with a simpler approach. "In the exact same circumstances, I'd do it exactly the same again."

Hardcastle shook his head. That was exactly what he'd been afraid of. "No, McCormick, it can't be that way."

"Why?" the ex-con demanded. "Because I broke the law?"

"No." The judge wanted to be clear on this. "Not because you broke the law; because you almost threw your life away." He took a breath and rushed on. "Dammit, McCormick, you're working hard these past few months; doing things the right way, getting things in order. You can't just give all that up because . . . because of . . ."

"Because of you?" McCormick supplied helpfully.

"Exactly!" Hardcastle declared. "You know, we're working together now. People might think they can use me to get to you—"

"Or vice versa," Mark interjected with a small grin, pulling another fry from the bag.

"Or vice versa," Hardcastle conceded. "But that's why you have to make the right decisions, see. The decisions that will let you keep moving down the right path, whether I'm around or not."

McCormick smiled gently. "But that's what I did, Judge. I mean, yeah, I went along with Filapiano and his crazy scheme to keep you alive, but you can't really blame me for that. I mean, I'm not gonna let anyone _die_ if I can help it.

"But coming back, turning myself in? That's exactly what you're talking about, isn't it? I could've done what Filapiano wanted me to do; could've taken the money and run. But that _wouldn't_ have been the right decision."

Hardcastle thought about that for a minute. The kid wasn't supposed to be able to turn this against him. "Yeah, but even then, you weren't telling the whole truth; you were trying to make some noble sacrifice. I can't have you doing that."

"I'll let you in on a little secret, Judge." He looked back out at the wildflowers. "Yeah, I turned myself in, and if it meant I had to go to jail for the rest of my life to keep you alive, I woulda done it. But you know what? There was a part of me that was pretty sure it wouldn't have to come to that. Somehow, I thought you'd be able to find a way to save me, even from myself."

"You did, huh?" the jurist asked gruffly.

McCormick nodded. "And it turns out I was right." He glanced back over at the other man. "Kinda like you. Frank told me you never believed I was guilty, even at the beginning, when you didn't even know where I was."

"Well . . ." Hardcastle fidgeted slightly, his attention suddenly much more focused on the task of steering the vehicle. Then he shrugged. "Not like you've done anything to make me think you'd suddenly just cut and run, with an A class felony thrown in for good measure. I told you; you've been on the right path."

"Exactly. So we both made our decisions, even with someone trying to use us against one another, and we both made the _right_ decision. Everything turned out just fine. The bad guys got caught, and the good guys got Burger Man." He offered a salute with his shake cup. "What could be better?"

Hardcastle grinned. He was pretty sure his point had not been that McCormick had made the right decision in most of this situation, but the kid was right; it was hard to argue with the final outcome.

"Okay," he admitted, "you could be right. This time. I guess I'll settle for telling you to just be as careful as you can." He lifted a hand off the wheel and held a palm toward his passenger. "And, yeah, I know that goes for me, too."

"Good. Then you want a fry?"

Hardcastle took the offered snack with a chuckle. "Don't be thinking you can bribe me, kiddo. You've got a lot of chores waiting for you back at home."

McCormick groaned slightly. "Even when I'm in jail I don't get a break from the lawn?" he complained. "There is just something wrong about that."

"Aw, it won't take long. And then I'll even let you pick whatever you want to do tonight."

Mark took a long, thoughtful drink of his shake. "Anything?" he finally asked.

Hardcastle hesitated. He was pretty sure he was being set up, but . . . "Sure, kid; anything you want."

"I never got my trip to Vegas."

Hardcastle chuckled ruefully. He should've seen that coming. "Okay. After your chores, go ahead and call Teddy."

McCormick looked over in surprise. "Teddy? No. I thought we could go." He shrugged. "It's been a stressful week; I might be in the mood to make some bad decisions."

"Need someone who can protect you from yourself, huh?"

"Yep. And it's been a stressful week for you, too, Hardcase. Who else do you think is gonna watch over you and put up with your John Wayne fest?"

Hardcastle just laughed as he pulled under the arch at Gull's Way.

"Vegas," he agreed. "And we'll watch out for each other."


End file.
